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I 

HAWTHORNE'S 



230 



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School and College 



RECITER. 



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"JUL S5J89! 

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New Yoek : 

HUEST AND COMPANY, 

Publishers. 



Copyright 1891, By HURST AND COMPANY. 






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ARGYLE PRESS, 
Printing and Bookbinding, 

265 & 267 CHERRY £T., N. Y. 



PREFACE. 



It is rashly asserted that the Age of Eloquence is past ; 
or, at least, that no orators are heard who might cope with 
the giants of the American rostrum. But the Persuasive 
Art can never become extinct where dwell the sons of 
Webster, Calhoun, Clay, Randolph, Everett, Parker, Breckin- 
ridge, Marshall, Yancey, and our other immortals, whose 
voices echo eternally in the vistas of Time. Oratory is dif- 
fused and not thereby weakened ; it is not a plant that runs 
to seed, but a banyan tree, more and more lusty as it sends 
out a fresh root which rises to the sky — another monarch of 
the forest! No falling off can be in popularity of the divine 
gift which, when polished to perfection, is " all things to all 
men." Indeed, every man can appreciate it; unlike science 
and its sister arts, no special training is demanded in the 
auditor and judge, since the sole implement is the tongue, 
with which all are born, and the materials are the words 
which each has the same chance to gather and employ. In 
the same degree of power, witchery, and facility not all may 
wield it, but there is no restriction on the enjoyment of the 
words by any one. In every corner of our vast country 
cluster its worshipers — where the gold-stampers thunder, 
the factory chimney fumes, the ship-yard adze rings on the 
pine knot, and the iron bolt repulses the sledge; the molten 
metal hisses, and the grove shudders as the ax descends — 
in the bank parlor and on the city square — throngs hasten 
into rank to hear the public speaker. In spite of a thousand 
meretricious sirens, the plain, sincere voice irresistibly draws 
and retains. 



ii PREFACE. 

Why is this? 

Because to express thought is foremost of man's desires, 
and to express it properly a universal aim. The babe itself 
prattles to the family — the schoolboy to his fellows — the 
workingman to his comrades — the student to his brother 
collegians, and the budding statesman to the debating club. 

Oratory is the marching-tune of the movement of Civiliza- 
tion in a free country; the right of free speech would be a 
mockery unless widely exercised. Tyrants might laugh 
where it was garbled and stammered. It is democratic, for 
Nature does not bestow the boon where prayed for, or it 
would be purchased by a royal fee. But we see King 
George tongue-tied while Patrick Henry, in his homespun 
suit, denounces him in a burning philippic of which the 
caustic still bites. 

Even those more lowly born have reached the highest 
eyries by the art of elocution. When a school-boy Hamil- 
ton — the guardian angel of the young Republic — enthralled 
a rural gathering; Hampden was a country squire when he 
rebuked Charles First, and Desmoulins a briefless lawyer 
when, mounting a table in the Paris park, he electrified the 
supine populace into wrecking an ancient throne and storm- 
ing the Bastile. 

This collection is distinguished for the care and taste 
shown in selections fitted for effective delivery in educational 
halls, the drawing-room, or on the open-air platform at all 
manner of assemblies. These are the favorite pieces, with 
those as worthy of becoming familiar and endeared; not 
so brief as to exasperate by insufficiency or so long as to 
tire speaker and hearer; they enshrine brilliant thoughts in 
that agreeable form proportioned to the powers of the novice 
and the broader range of the experienced student. The 
boundless variety enables a profound test of one's resources, 
talents, and elasticity of organ. In force and elegance of 
diction, they will serve as well for models of style if imita- 
tion for extempore addresses should be attempted. 



PREFACE. Ill 

Fathers may trustingly place this volume in their son's 
hands; professors may place it in their pupil's — for eloquence 
is the purest of the arts: silence is the shield of evil. The 
pieces in which a mixed audience delight are those inculcating 
only the finest and saintliest sentiments, flowing from the 
good, the pious, the patriotic, and the truly great. No man 
dare stand up before a hundred and repeat the vicious verse 
that amused a clique in a corner — but these choice pieces have 
not a blush among them all for the gentlest maiden's cheek. 

Some say our mother tongue is not that of song — it is that 
of honest, hearty, manly speech. These pages are drawn 
from the tricentennial volume signed by Milton, Shakespeare, 
Scott, and the other immortals. In their bursts and flights 
of inspiration, the orator will meet the means to quench 
ignoble passions and inflame those lofty ones which light a 
people to fame and victory. 

The would-be orator who studies our well-tried instruc- 
tions and puts them into practice upon the numerous ex- 
amples following, will certainly entertain his friends; he 
should impress an audience; and he may hope, in elevating 
them, to raise himself to no insignificant place — in the arena, 
the Legislature, the Senate — who knows ? to that chair which 
orators have occupied — Jefferson, Madison, Lincoln! 



CONTENTS. 



Page. 
Address at Gettysburg, Abraham Lin- 
coln 295 

Address to the Heavenly Bodies, Henry 

Ware, Jr 300 

Address to the Sun Ossian 244 

Address to the Surviving Veterans of 

the Revolution D. Webster 74 

African Chief. The Wm. C. Bryant 188 

Aim of Don Quixote, The, George Tick- 

nor 183 

Alcestis and Pheres 282 

Alpine Scenery Lord Byron 190 

A Man's a Man for A' That, Robert 

Burns 25 

Ambition Henry Clay 123 

American Flag, The J. R. Drake 170 

American Laborers C. Kaylor 267 

Angels of Buena Vista, The, J.G. Whit- 
tier , 258 

Annabel Lee Edgar A. Poe 37 

Antiquity of Freedom, The, Wm. C. 

Bryant 256 

Apostrophe to the Ocean ..Lord Byron 245 
Arab's Farewell to His Steed, The, Mrs. 

Norton 58 

Archie Dean G. Hamilton 139 

Arctic Lover, The. . Wm. Cullen Bryant 44 
Awaking of a Great Nation, The, Mil- 



ton 16 

Baron's Last Banquet, The, A. G. 

Greene Ill 

Battle of Ivry, The Lord Macaulay 21 

Battle of Waterloo, The. . Victor Hugo 174 

Bells, The Edgar A. Poe 150 

Blennerhassett Wm. Wirt 193 

Bombastic Description of a Midnight 

Murder 108 

Books E. P. Whipple 109 

Boy, The N. P. Willis 198 

Brakeman at Church, The 152 

Briefless Barrister, The J. G. Saxe 47 

Cataract of Lodore, The, Robert Southey 38 

Cato's Soliloquy Joseph Addison 180 

Caught in the Quicksand. . Victor Hugo 109 

Character of Napoleon Lamartine 50 

Character of Napoleon, The, W. Phil- 
lips 81 

Charcoal Man, The . . .J. T. Trowbridge 82 
Church-yard, The .. Nicolai Karamsin 278 

Cicero Against Mark Antony 314 

Classical Study Henry A. Frink 159 

Closing Year, The G.D. Prentice 77 

Coliseum, The Lord Byron 49 

Contrast. The : or, Peace and "War 234 

Creeds of the Bells, The . . G. W.Bungay 93 

Custer'B Last Charge F. Whittaker 64 

Dante and Milton Compared, Lord 

Macaulay 187 

Darkness Lord Byron 224 



Page. 

Days That are Gone CJias. Mackay 307 

Death of the Flowers, The, Wm. Cullen 

Bryant 124 

Decisive Integrity Wm. Wirt 117 

Declaration of Independence, The, 

Carl Schurz 45 

De Soto 66 

Destruction of Sennacherib, The, By- 
ron.-. 110 

Difficulty of Rhyming, The 16 L 

Downfall of Poland, The Campbell 24 

Drowned Mariner, The E.O. Smith 308 

Dwellings of the Dead 320 

Dying Alchemist, The i\ r . P. Willis 26 

Dying Gladiator, The Lord Byron 162 

Elegy in a Country Church-yard, 

Thomas Gray 103 

Execution of Montrose, The, Wm. E. 

Aytoun 253 

Extract from Rienzi . . Mary R. Mitford 275 
First Te Deum, The.. . . .31. J. Preston 61 

Flight for Life, The Wm. Sawyer 147 

Forging of the Anchor, The, S. Fergu- 
son 279 

Forgive and Forget M. F. Tupper 217 

Fourth of July Ode. . .James R. Lowell 54 

Future of America, The Webster 15 

Garfield James G. Blaine 215 

General Wolfe to his Army Aildn 72 

German Character A. S. Hoyt 146 

Ginevra Samuel Rogers 286 

Gladiator, The. 79 

Green River Wm. Cullen Bryant 86 

Graves of the Patriots, The, J. G. Per- 

cival 102 

Hagar in the Wilderness. .N.P. Willis 302 

Hallowed Ground Thomas Campbell 310 

Hamlet's Advice to a Son Going to 

Travel 127 

Hamlet's Soliloquy on his Mother's 

Marriage 155 

Hannibal to his Army 233 

Henry the Fourth's Soliloquy on 

Sleep Shakespeare 178 

Heroism Hale 113 

Herve Riel Robert Browning 229 

Hohenlinden Thomas Campbell 236 

Home James Montgomery 289 

Horatius at the Bridge, Lord Macaulay 114 
Hunter's Vision, The, Wm. Cullen 

Bryant 164 

Hymn of Praise by Adam and Eve, 

John Milton 268 

Hymn to the Night.. H. W.Longfellow 95 
Indian at the Burial-place of his 

Fathers, An W.C. Bryant 83 

Indian Girl's Lament, The, Wm. Cul- 
len Bryant 42 

Indian's Claim, The. ..Edward Everett 62 



CONTENTS . — Continued . 



Page. 

Indian's Tale, The J". G. Whittier 222 

Indians, The Charles Sprague 265 

Isabel James Russell LowelL 91 

Lake of the Dismal Swamp, The, 

Thomas Moore 185 

Lee's Miserables 201 

Letting the Old Cat Die 71 

Lexington Oliver Wendell Holmes 17 

Lines on a Skeleton 306 

Lochiel's Waruing. . . Thomas Campbell 251 

Love of Country Sir Walter Scott 41 

Making Love in the Choir 60 

Marshal Ney's Last Charge at "Water- 
loo J. T. Headley 40 

Modern Belle, The Stark 111 

Moon's Mild Bay, The . . John II Bryant 318 

Moral Glories Horace Mann 313 

Moral Warfare, The J.G. Whittier 73 

Murdered Traveler, The, W. C. Bryant 75 

My Mother's Bible G P. Morris 156 

National Injustice Theo. Parker 209 

New England Percival 90 

Nightfall W. W. Ellsworth 196 

!No God N. K. Richardson 32 

Nothing but Leaves 312 

Not on the Battle-field J. Pierpont 181 

Obligations of America to England, 

Edward Everett 237 

Oh ! Why Should the Spirit of Mortal 

be Proud 172 

On Beauty Shakespeare 319 

On his Own Blindness .... John Milton 318 

On Procrastination Young 179 

On Shakespeare Hartley Coleridge 319 

Opinions Stronger than Armies, L. A. 

Ostrander 28 

Over the Paver N.A. W Priest 57 

Overthrow of Belshazzar, B. Cornwall 300 

Our One Life Horatius Bonar 301 

Parental Ode to My Infant Son, A, 

Hood 271 

Passing Away J. Pierpont 69 

Passions, The William Collins 273 

Pilgrim Fathers, The. . .Chas. Sprague 246 

Pilgrim Fathers, The J. Pierpont 163 

Pilgrim's Vision, The, OliverW. Holmes 166 

Pleasures of Hope Campbell 219 

Poetry of the Sea, The Glover 18 

Power of Shrines, The 88 

Prisoner of Chillon, The .. Lord Byron 202 
Progress of Society, The, William E. 

Cham/ling . 242 



Page. 
Psalm of Life, A....H. W. Longfellow 96 

Raven, The Edgar A. Poe 119 

Reign of Terror, The.. Lord Macaulay 137 

Reply to Hay ne Daniel Webster 87 

Reverie, A '. . James Russell Lowell 199 

Richard of Gloster John G. Saxe 316 

Richelieu's Vindication, Edw. George 

E. Bulwer 290 

Riley Echo, A 138 

Rising of the Vendee, The, George 

Croly 292 

Romance of a Hammock 210 

Sam Weller's Valentine . . Chas. Dickens 34 
Second Inaugural Address, Abraham 

Lincoln 295 

Seminole's Reply, The. . . G. W. Patten 46 
Senator's Pledge, The..67ias. Sumner 128 

Serenade James G. Percival 194 

Shipwreck, The John Wilson 249 

Skeleton in Armor, The, H. W. Long- 
fellow 130 

Speech of the Scythian Ambassadors 

to Alexander the Great Aikin 107 

Speech on the American War, Lord 

Chatham 239 

Sphinx James R. Lowell 55 

Spirits of the Storm ...N.J. Clodjelter 2i.l 
Soliloquy of the Gambler's Wife, 

Coates 218 

Somebody's Mother 97 

Song of Marion's Men, Wm. Cullen 

Bryant 51 

Song of the Greeks Campbell 270 

Song of the Shirt Thomas Hood 157 

Tact and Talent 276 

Thanatopsis Wm. Cullen Bryant 19 

Three Words, (The) ; Arnold, the 

Traitor George Lippard 98 

To the Future James Russell Lowell 175 

Vagabonds, The J. T Trowbridge 29 

Valuable Hints for Students... Todd 227 
Venomous Bowl, The ..N.J. Clodfelter 126 
Village Blacksmith, The, Henry W. 

Longfellow 63 

Washington and Lincoln Compared, 

Charles Sumner 297 

White Mountains, The, J. G. Whit- 
tier 220 

Widow of Glencoe, The, Wm. E. Ay- 

toun 261 

Wreck of the Hesperus, The, H. W. 

Longfellow 134 



ADVICE, 
SUGGESTIONS, AND INSTRUCTIONS. 



Of all instruments the most beautiful is the human voice. 
Many a man who walks the streets penniless had a fortune 
in his throat as surely as an operatic tenor, for a good 
speaker or reader is more sure of a safe position than a 
stage-hero. But the voice must be cultivated and cared for 
or there will be no variety in the tone, and improper manage- 
ment of it will displease where it might have gladdened. 
By finding out your vocal defects and skillfully avoiding 
betrayal of them by selecting the line of oratory in which 
not only may a voice too strong and harsh affect and im- 
pose but also excel, more than one aspirant to fame has 
conquered the palm. We have a convincing example in the 
tragedian Charles Kean, whose voice was his chief obstacle, 
but he constrained it to serve him and, at least, he made 
himself endurable. This proves that tuition is not thrown 
away, even when self-administered. The most serious gaps 
may be bridged over, weak notes strengthened by simple 
remedies, unmusical ones palliated, and patient, well-in- 
formed endeavors amply repaid. 

In pronouncing the consonants five positions of the organs 
of speech are taken; the least divergence from the correct 
one changing the sound materially. Articulation makes 
the difference between b and fi, t and d f etc. Hence the 
enunciation must be attended to even if one had "the 
golden mouth " of St. John. It follows that those speakers 
are most captivating and forcible who speak measuredly? 



Vi ADVICE, SUGGESTIONS, AND INSTRUCTIONS. 

though without growing monotonous and phonograph-like. 
The variations in tone give pleasure, and that in speed still 
another. Sometimes, to imply rapid action, extreme quick- 
ness of utterance is necessary, but distinctness may yet be 
maintained. The late Charles Mathews was renowned for 
the celerity of his " patter," but a shorthand writer could 
take down his words as readily as those of a speaker at one 
third of his rate. Unless, too, the audience hear under- 
standing^ every word, recitation is but a farce. Indeed, 
if the words are transmitted clearly, although the delivery 
lacked perfection of intonation, the hearers' minds would 
supply what was wanting and the speaker win applause. 
As in other cases, mastery of self must be preserved, for 
the uncurbed tongue becomes unintelligible. The poet 
Menander said that one could as easily recall a stone flung 
from the hand as the word once spoken; a writer may cor- 
rect his error at the last moment — the orator has no such 
a privilege. 

The volume of sound poured out must be considered in 
proportion to the length of the piece and the demand it makes 
on the system; it is a good rule to be moderate in the 
majority of the passages as regards loudness, and if you 
begin without much intensity you can long continue untaxed. 
This level tone is the background to your vocal picture, 
your accentuated and loudly uttered lines are the shades 
and high lights, to borrow again the terms of a sister art. 
You have a kind of gamut of tones from the hoarse whisper 
of horror to the cheer or shout of relief and victory, but 
you must not abuse even these effects, for, the keener the 
weapon, the sooner it is blunted by use. 

In friendly meetings, and those of the popular sort, imita- 
tions of the cries of inarticulate creatures, noises of natural 
objects, and the peculiarities of singular characters may be 
allowed if faithfully executed ; but, generally, the point 
should be made by laying stress on the passage and dis- 
tinctly uttering the conventional phrase for the sound. 



ADVICE, SUGGESTIONS, AND INSTRUCTIONS. Vll 

Dialect Characters. — Unless one, also, is excellent at 
dialect, it is dangerous to choose such speeches, as in our 
country of miscellaneous nationalities a bungling essay will 
fail to please the native element and will anger the foreigner. 

Direction of Voice. — The voice is to be directed straight 
down the hall or across the room; so that the farthest auditon 
may hear. In making allusions to an imaginary person in 
the piece, do not fix your eyes on any individual in the 
room; this act, while it often raises a laugh, is vulgar and 
reprehensible. 

Personal Appearance. — Such is the diversity of subjects 
that no one gifted with voice and intelligence need shrink 
from the platform because his appearance is not in his favor. 
Signora Pasta, a once celebrated operatic singer, was ugly, 
but if she sang before her entrance — as she always stipu- 
lated that she should do — her reception was flattering. The 
ungainly and uncomely would require the finest qualities 
of voice and the most intelligent rendition to succeed in the 
serious, elevated and beautiful styles. On the contrary, pity 
would help him in the grotesque and horrible vein, and the 
wide world of the comic and burlesque parodies which are 
plentiful above all, is his nearly entirely. But Goethe has 
well said that " Nature provides no fault which may not 
become a virtue"; a hunchback is popularly supposed to be 
witty beyond more favored men physically, and, thanks to 
the tradition of ^Esop, one is accepted without laughter in 
satirical pieces. In any event, an insignificant and unseemly 
frame has not hindered talent. " The little man," Edmund 
Kean, at whom the Adonises of the London stage sneered, 
sallow, pinched by hunger, long-nosed, scarce taller than a 
manikin, stood upon prejudices the foremost tragedian of 
England. 

Manner. — Three schools of oratory are among us: the 
English, the Northern, and the Southern, of* which the 
French, the Delsartian, and cognate eccentricities are but 
offshoots. The first is suitable to the politician, lawyer in 



Viii ADVICE, SUGGESTIONS, AND INSTRUCTIONS. 

grave cases, statistician, and serious debater; in this the 
speaker never shows excitement; he repeats a hostile argu- 
ment in the same feelingless tone as his own counterblast is 
spoken; he rarely notices interruptions, and only at the con- 
clusion does he indulge in poetry and human feeling; he 
may use notes and he resembles a reader. The New England 
or North American style is an exaggeration of this: the 
features are immobile as a mask of bronze; the voice is 
inflexible; the gestures few and stereotyped; if the address 
be humorous the laugh is fortified by the incongruity of the 
text with the stiff figure and mournful face ; Artemus Ward 
perplexed the Londoners by this unsympathetic mode. 
Nevertheless it accords with the already convinced, who find 
in the unruffled speaker a confirmation of their opinion. 

The Southern style is fervid and out of date east of the 
Mississippi and north of the Alleghanies; it is imitated in 
the West. The oration begins in a high key and the inten- 
sity is kept up to the finale; for invectives, patriotic, eulo- 
gistic, high-flown poetry it wins the populace, but it is trying, 
exhausting, and so near the edge of bombast as to make a 
sensible reciter fear that he will be mocked at. Still, in 
patriotic pieces, it should be employed for the conclusion, 
but be gradually worked up to. 

The style has gone out when the interpreter sought to 
enact the original expositor; he now modestly holds himself 
as a mouthpiece, subdued in tone and bearing and always 
under the rein. 

Attitude. — A lecturer stands at his book-rest side-wise to 
the audience, but turns his face to them when speaking : on 
going up to the map, panorama, or picture to point at, he 
must keep his face toward them, though it need not be 
fully turned. A reader faces his audience, whether the 
table for his notes, book, and refreshment is between them 
or not. The reciter stands facing them also; for variety's 
sake he may speak a line or two facing one or the other 
flank of the audience. If thoroughly he divorces himself 



ADVICE, SUGGESTIONS, AND INSTRUCTIONS. IX 

from his voice, so to say, he will have neared perfection 
according to our latest fashion; only the celebrity and the 
comic reciter is supposed to be regarded for his appearance. 
As the main thing, nervousness must not be revealed; it 
has a counteraction on the hearers arid disposes them 
against the speaker. Consequently, as one position held 
too long would pain, the pose can be altered, but not fre- 
quently, and always after a sentence has been commenced 
and so quietly as not to draw notice; but do not do it 
surreptitiously, or the suggestion of concealment will pique 
the observer. Unfortunately, in evening dress, the hands 
if gloved, as strictness commands, are much too conspicuous. 
They are to be but seldom used, and then briefly and in as 
simple, elegant curving lines as possible; rather, too, the 
right alone than both together. Usually they hang by the 
side at ease, but not as a soldier carries his; some, for a 
point, let them hang very loosely after a telling effect or at 
the closing bow to suggest prostration on account of the 
task accomplished. 

Gesticulation. — In all good circles, the conventional ges- 
tures, derived from Lebrun's " Passions," are no longer 
used. They are condemned as unnatural or theatrical, much 
the same thing. The few employed must be appropriate and 
such as the subject suggests as its phases arise; practiced 
till smooth, which their limited number facilitates, they 
must not seem insincere, prepared, and automatic. Not 
much freedom can be expected in the stiff collar, inflexible 
linen front, and "claw hammer" coat, but gracefulness 
must be striven for in all movements. Vehemence of 
gesture is therefore out of the question. This suppres- 
sion of gesticulation, together with that of facial expres- 
sion, again gives the reciter more time for conduct of his 
voice. 

Entrances and Exits. — If the piece concerns one charac- 
ter, its manner may be suggested by the manner of coming 
upon the platform; if not, avoid as well the insolent as- 



X ADVICE, SUGGESTIONS, AND INSTRUCTIONS. 

surance of the conceited as the tranquillity of the indif- 
ferent. An audience wishes to be shown that it is the 
master. Having saluted it generally with a comprehen- 
sive bow, bestow one on the distinguished guests or other 
principals, and, in a less prominent manner, on any persons 
sitting on the platform; this is not strictly correct in the 
theatrical code, as these intruders are not supposed to be 
there; but it is courteous, and these will not be the less 
hearty in applause for your politeness. For the exit, having 
bowed rather prolongedly after the last words, cross without 
apparent hurry but really briskly to the side of the platform 
for exit, turn, bow again slowly and quickly step back 
with a calmly smiling face, and retire. 

Facial Expression. — Until lately, a reciter was expected to 
be something of an actor, reflecting on his countenance the 
words depicted in the pieces. But, except in character- 
costume recitals, the modern elocutionist " keeps his face " 
just a shade relaxed from impassibility, whatever the emo- 
tions his voice dilates upon. The born mimic and the actor, 
however, are unfettered in departing from this law, for the 
increased illusion is enjoyed even by the most fastidious 
audience. This statuesque bearing is easier for the ex- 
ponent, and it harmonizes with classical pieces, descriptions 
of remote historical events, scenery, statuary, and episodes of 
foreign travels. Concentrated on his voice, the reciter can 
hope for a less arduous triumph than formerly. 

Dress. — Except in character-costume sketches, when the 
reciter has to " make up the face " as well as dress like the 
personage whose voice he takes, demands of apparel are not 
nowadays onerous. An evening suit in the best taste, erring 
in severity if at all, suffices for all occasions after four 
o'clock p. m.; previously the morning dress is according to 
regulation. In any hall where the daylight is excluded, the 
evening dress is worn although the audience may be in demi- 
toilet. Nothing extravagant or fanciful is allowed in the 
dressing of the hair or wearing of jewelry. To call atten- 



ADVICE, SUGGESTIONS, AND INSTRUCTIONS. XI 

tion to one's self when the recital is " the thing " would be 
vulgar. 

Delivery. — "What is most wondrous and powerful in art is 
due to nature "; this being true, the more natural you are in 
pieces not on the face of them artificial, like boudoir verse, 
the more certain your triumph. But you cannot dispense 
with the added luster of art. Be fluent, always audible, and 
consistent with your conception of the theme and its sug- 
gestions for vocal interpretation. To attain ease will be 
difficult but " they can conquer who believe they can." 

Emphasis. — By gradations in the stress placed here and 
there, oratorical ornament is obtained. It is so common a 
fault, very strong in localities and in classes, to emphasize 
wrongly, that you must look studiously for the exact place 
to locate the accentuation. If put upon the verbs, the effect 
will be of power; if on the adjectives, of charm; for the poets 
in particular, choose the latter for their melody. 

Reading. — One of the most profitable public posts is that 
of the clerk who reads documents in courts, halls, and offices; 
it is difficult to fill, as the art of reading well is rarely culti- 
vated. Only by long exercise is one enabled to read any 
article at sight; consequently, a piece should be read over 
several times before recited in public, to master the hard 
and unusual words and learn where to husband the breath 
for a long sentence. Do this before a critical friend who 
will correct mispronunciation and, mainly, undue haste, 
which causes indistinctness. 

Rehearsing. — It is not enough to repeat your piece before 
the mirror with the appropriate gestures to your own satis- 
faction. " The seeds of elocution may be planted in solitude, 
but must be cultivated in public." Repeat before an older 
and judicious critic, and then before a small audience 
of friends. Certainly once — but three times if you can — 
recite in the hall — or a similar room — and when lighted up 
as on the occasion. Here, again, a friend at the back should 
counsel you on the range of your voice. 



Xll ADVICE, SUGGESTIONS, AND INSTRUCTIONS. 

Choosing Pieces.— -You may rely on sympathy guiding you to 
the most suitable pieces. Boldness in picking out novelty 
will often win when prudence would have selected the worn- 
out and commonplace. Often an audience, lulled by dulcet 
periods, will welcome a page of Carlyle, Lowell, or Browning, 
or on the other hand applaud a dainty flake of froth from a 
parlor poet. Besides, what is to your own liking will logic- 
ally be delivered with profound acquaintance, and there 
can be no error if your kind of voice and appearance con- 
cord with its style. As almost all prose pieces fitted for reci- 
tation have the rhythm and meter at which our polished 
writers aim, there is little difference between prose and 
poetry for practice. In the latter one may, if not on guard, 
grow humdrum, but by changing the pieces according to 
meter, variety will always prevail. For popular gatherings 
pieces devoid of literary allusions, foreign names and remote 
parallels, and sonorous in diction, take the prize. 

Learning a Piece. — When the piece is one with which 
liberty may be taken get the gist or meaning of it before 
troubling about the words clothing it. Writing them out 
fixes them most quickly and deeply on the mind. Generally 
three times copying will do, but five or nine will suffice for 
even unimpressionable memories. If you are pressed for 
time or the piece is not to be recalled afterward, learn as 
actors do: get the string of words by rote like a parrot is 
crammed, without heed of the meanings; then separate by 
paragraphs and discriminate by sense and elocutionary 
needs. 



HAWTHORNE'S 

SCHOOL AND COLLEGE RECITER. 



THE FUTURE OF AMERICA. 
Daniel Webster. 

Let us not forget the religious character of our origin. 
Our fathers were brought hither by their high veneration 
for the Christian religion. They journeyed in its light, 
and labored in its hope. They sought to incorporate its 
principles with the elements of their society, and to diffuse 
its influence through all their institutions, civil, political 
and literary. Let us cherish these sentiments, and extend 
their influence still more widely ; in the full conviction that 
that is the happiest society which partakes in the highest 
degree of the mild and peaceable spirit of Christianity. 

The hours of this day are rapidly flying, and this occa- 
sion will soon be passed. Neither we nor our children can 
expect to behold its return. They are in the distant regions 
of futurity, they exist only in the all creating power of God, 
who shall stand here, a hundred years hence, to trace, 
through us, their descent from the pilgrims, and to survey, 
as we have now surveyed, the progress of their country 
during the lapse of a century. We would anticipate their 
concurrence with us in our sentiments of deep regard for 
our common ancestors. We would anticipate and partake 
the pleasure with which they will then recount the steps of 
New England's advancement. On the morning of that 
day, although it will not disturb us in our repose, the voice 
of acclamation and gratitude, commencing on the rock of 
Plymouth, shall be transmitted through millions of the sons 
of the pilgrims, till it lose itself in the murmurs of the 
Pacific seas. 

We would leave, for the consideration of those who shall 

15 



l6 THE AWAKENING OF A GREAT NATION. 

then occupy our places, some proof that we hold the bless- 
ings transmitted from our fathers in just estimation ; some 
proof of our attachment to the cause of good government, 
and of civil and religious liberty ; some proof of a sincere 
and ardent desire to promote everything which may enlarge 
the understandings and improve the hearts of men. And 
when, from the long distance of a hundred years, they shall 
look back upon us, they shall know, at least, that we pos- 
sessed affections, which, running backward, and warming 
with gratitude for what our ancestors have done for our 
happiness, run forward also to our posterity, and meet them 
with cordial salutation, ere yet they have arrived on the 
shore of Being. 

Advance, then, ye future generations ! We would hail 
you as you rise in your long succession to fill the places 
which we now fill, and to taste the blessings of existence 
where we are passing, and soon shall have passed, our 
human duration. We bid you welcome to this pleasant land 
of the Fathers. We bid you welcome to the healthful skies 
and the verdant fields of New England. We greet your 
accession to the great inheritance which we have enjoyed. 
We welcome you to the blessings of good government and 
religious liberty. We welcome you to the treasures of 
science and the delights of learning. We welcome you to 
the transcendent sweets of domestic life, to the happiness 
of kindred and parents and children. We welcome you to 
the immeasurable blessings of rational existence, the im- 
mortal hope of Christianity, and the light of everlasting 
Truth ! 



THE AWAKING OF A GREAT NATION. 
John Milton. 

Methinks I see, in my mind, a noble and puissant nation 
rousing herself like a strong man after sleep, and shaking 
her invincible locks ; methinks I see her as an eagle mew- 
ing her mighty youth, and kindling her dazzled eyes at the 
full midday beam ; purging and unsealing her long abused 
sight at the fountain itself of heavenly radiance ; while the 
whole noise of timorous and flocking birds, with those also 
that love the twilight, flutter about, amazed at what she 
means, and, in their envious gabble, would prognosticate a 
year of sects and schisms. 



LEXINGTON. 1^ 

LEXINGTON. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 

Slowly the mist o'er the meadow was creeping, 

Bright on the dewy buds glistened the sun, 
When from his couch, while his children were sleeping, 
Rose the bold rebel and shouldered his gun. 
Waving her golden veil 
Over the silent dale, 
Blithe looked the morning on cottage and spire ; 
Hushed was his parting sigh, 
While from his noble eye 
Flashed the last sparkle of liberty's fire. 

On the smooth green where the fresh leaf is springing 

Calmly the first-born of glory have met ; 
Hark! the death-volley around them is ringing ! 
Look! with their life-blood the young grass is wet ! 

Faint is the feeble breath, 

Murmuring low in death, 
" Tell to our sons how their fathers have died," 

Nerveless the iron hand, 

Raised for its native land, 
Lies by the weapon that gleams at its side. 

Over the hillsides the wild knell is tolling, 

From their far hamlets the yeomanry come ; 
As through the storm-clouds the thunder-burst rolling, 
Circles the beat of the mustering drum. 

Fast on the soldier's path 

Darken the waves of wrath, 
Long have they gathered and loud shall they fall ; 

Red glares the musket's flash, 

Sharp rings the rifle's crash, 
Blazing and clanging from thicket and wall. 

Gayly the plume of the horseman was dancing, 

Never to shadow his cold brow again ; 
Proudly, at morning the war-steed was prancing, 
Reeking and panting he droops on the rein ; 
Pale is the lip of scorn, 
Voiceless the trumpet horn, 
Torn is the silken-fringed red cross on high ; 



l8 THE POETRY OP THE SEA. 

Many a belted breast 
Low on the turf shall rest, 
Ere the dark hunters the herd have passed by. 

Snow-girdled crags where the hoarse wind is raving, 

Rocks where the weary floods murmur and wail, 
Wilds where the fern by the furrow is waving, 
Reeled with the echoes that rode on the gale ; 

Far as the tempest thrills 

Over the darkened hills, 
Far as the sunshine streams over the plain, 

Roused by the tyrant band, 

Woke all the mighty land, 
Girded for battle, from mountain to main. 

Green be the graves where her martyrs are lying ! 

Shroudless and tombiess they sunk to their rest, — 
While o'er their ashes the starry fold flying 

Wraps the proud eagle they roused from his nest. 

Born on her northern pine 

Long o'er the foaming brine 
Spread her broad banner to storm and to sun. 

Heaven keep her ever free, 

Wide as o'er land and sea 
Floats the fair emblem her heroes have won. 



THE POETRY OF THE SEA. 
Glover. 

The sea is of itself, in every phase, the most wondrous 
poem of nature. Its very prose, in its strangeness and vast- 
ness, rises to the dignity of poetry. It combines, as nothing 
else on earth, the poetic elements of beauty and sublimity. 

It is a poem of beauty : beauty of color in the emerald and 
blue of its glistening foam-caps, and in its blazing phos- 
phorescence, when silver to the moon or golden in the sun- 
light ; where purple in the haze or black by the thunder- 
cloud : beauty of form, in every curling wave and undulating 
swell : beauty of sound, in every ripple on its rocks, and all 
its mighty, ceaseless murmurings. 

It is sublime in its power. Men have built great barriers 
and erected strong dikes ; but impassioned ocean has dashed 



THANATOPSIS. IQ 

them to spray, and, leaping across the boundaries, swallowed 
up the land. They have built splendid cities, and made beau- 
tiful broad countries : and the sea has risen in tidal waves 
and swept them away like the drift-wood of the shore. Sur- 
mounted, but never subdued — broken, yet never destroyed : 
yielding to an infant's hand, it wears away the rocks we call 
everlasting, and builds new continents as it built the old. 

It is sublime in its mystery : mystery in the icy prisons of 
the North ; in the unknown isles of the South ; in the strange 
lands of itsenfathomed depths ; in the wondrous life it sus- 
tains ; in the mighty forces to which it responds. But to us, 
sublimest mystery of all, it has locked for ages, in its deep 
bosom, the saddest secrets of our race. It chants the cease- 
less, solemn requiem ; but tells no tales of the countless dead 
that have left within it a double mystery of the grave, pass- 
ing by unknown fates through the portals of the unknown 
life. Noble ships, like the Arctic, fade away into the fog- 
banks never to come forth. Careless hearts sail out toward 
shores they never see, and home calls them back in vain ; but 
the sea gives no sigh. Many-voiced, yet silent as eternity 
itself, eternity alone shall reveal its mystery. 

The sea is a Poem, as it moans in a sad, minor key about 
the lonely fisher's hut, to the heart of the watching fisher- 
wife ; as it shrieks in wild glee, raging through the rigging 
of the tempest-tossed vessel ; as it sings an endless song of 
eternal sunshine and slumber about " the isles of Eden lying 
in dark purple spheres of sea." It is an Epic, as it rolls 
through the gulf stream, winding and broadening, bearing 
swiftly on hopes and fears, and passions and gains. It is a 
Drama, as through its ever-rolling atoms continent speaks 
to continent, and wave towering aloft answers to wave. It 
is a Lyric, as it swells around jutting slopes of verdure, and 
creeps in tide away up the narrow river, or rises in atoms to 
greet the sun. 

It sang its first anthem of praise to the One Ruler of its 
waters ; and the same old Te Deum, grander than organ 
notes, still rolls along its shores. 



THANATOPSIS. 
William Cullen Bryant. 
To him who in the love of Nature holds 
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 



20 THANATOPSIS. 

A various language ; for his gayer hours 

She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 

And eloquence of beauty, and she glides 

Into his darker musings, with a mild 

And healing sympathy, that steals away 

Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts 

Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 

Over thy spirit, and sad images 

Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 

And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, 

Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart ; 

Go forth, under the open sky, and list 

To Nature's teachings, while from all around — 

Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — 

Comes a still voice — Yet a few days, and thee 

The all-beholding sun shall see no more 

In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground, 

Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, 

Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 

Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim 

Thy growth to be resolved to earth again, 

And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 

Thine individual being, shalt thou go 

To mix forever with the elements, 

To be a brother to the insensible rock 

And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain 

Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak 

Shall send its roots abroad and pierce thy mold. 

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 

Shalt thou retire alone — nor couldst thou wish 

Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 

With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings, 

The powerful of the earth, — the wise, the good, 

Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 

All in one mighty sepulcher. The hills 

Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, — the vales 

Stretching in pensive quietness between 

The venerable woods, — rivers that move 

In majesty, and the complaining brooks 

That made the meadows green ; and, poured around all. 

Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, 

Are but the solemn decorations all 

Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, 



THE BATTLE OF IVRY. 21 

The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, 

Are shining on the sad abodes of death, 

Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 

The globe are but a handful to the tribes 

That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings 

Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce, 

Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 

Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound 

Save his own dashings, — yet, the dead are there ; 

And millions in those solitudes, since first 

The flight of years began, have laid them down 

In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone. 

So shalt thou rest — and what if thou withdraw 

Unheeded by the living — and no friend 

Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe 

Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 

When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 

Plod on, and each one as before will chase 

His favorite phantom ; yet, all these shall leave 

Their mirth and their employments, and shall come 

And make their bed with thee. As the long train 

Of ages glide away, the sons of men, 

The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes 

In the full strength of years, matron and maid, 

And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man, 

Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side, 

By those who in their turn, shall follow them. So live 

That when thy summons comes to join 

The innumerable caravan that moves 

To that mysterious realm, where each shall take 

His chamber in the silent halls of death, 

Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, 

Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed 

By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, 

Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 

About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 



THE BATTLE OF IVRY. 

Lord Macaulay. 

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are ! 
And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre J 



22 THE BATTLE OF IVRY. 

Now, let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, 
Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, oh, pleasant 

land of France ! 
And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the 

waters, 
Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters. 
As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, 
For cold and stiff and still are they who wrought thy walls 

annoy. 
Hurrah ! hurrah ! a single field hath turned the chance of 

war. 
Hurrah ! hurrah ! for Ivry, and King Henry of Navarre ! 
Oh, how our hearts were beating, when at the dawn of day, 
We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array ; 
With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, 
And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears, 
There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our 

land ! 
And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his 

hand ; 
And as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's unpurpled 

flood, 
And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood ; 
And we cried unto the living Power who rules the fate of 

war, 
To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre ! 
The king is come to marshal us, all in his armor drest ; 
And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. 
He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye ; 
He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and 

high. _ 
Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, 
Down all our line, a deafening shout, " Long live our lord 

the King ! " 
"And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may — 
For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray — 
Press where you see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks 

of war — 
And be your oriflamme, to-day, the helmet of Navarre." 
Hurrah the foes are moving ! Hark to the mingled din 
Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin ! 
The fiery Duke is speeding fast across Saint Andre's plain, 
With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. 



THE BATTLE OF IVRY. 23 

" Now, by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, 
Charge — for the golden lilies now — upon them with the 

lance ! " 
A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in 

rest, 
A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white 

crest ; 
And in they burst, and on they rushed, while like a guiding 

star, 
Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre. 
Now, Heaven be praised, the day is ours! Mayenne hath 

turned his rein, 
D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish Count is 

slain. 
Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay 

gale ; 
The field is heaped with bleeding steeds and flags and cloven 

mail. 
And then we thought of vengeance ; and all along our van 
"Remember St. Bartholomew ! " was passed from man to 

man ; 
But out spoke gentle Henry, " No Frenchman is my foe ; . 
Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go." 
Oh was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, 
As our sovereign lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre ! 
Ho, maidens of Vienna ! Ho ! matrons of Lucerne ! 
Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall 

return. 
Ho ! Philip, send for charity thy Mexican pistoles, 
That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spear- 
men's souls ! 
Ho ! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be 

bright ! 
Ho ! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch and ward to- 
night ! 
For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised 

slave, 
And mocked the council of the wise, and the valor of the 

brave. 
Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are ; 
And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre. 



24 THE DOWNFALL OF POLAND. 

THE DOWNFALL OF POLAND. 

« 

Campbell. 

Oh, sacred Truth ! thy triumph ceased awhile, and Hope, 
thy sister, ceased with thee to smile, when leagued Oppres- 
sion poured to Northern wars her whiskered pandors and 
her fierce hussars ; waved her dread standard to the breeze 
of morn, pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet- 
horn ; tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van, presaging 
wrath to Poland — and to man ! V Warsaw's last champion 
from her heights surveyed, wide o'er the fields, a waste of 
ruin laid — " Oh, heaven ! " he cried, " my bleeding country 
save ! Is there no hand on high to shield the brave ? Yet 
though destructions weep these lovely plains, rise fellow- 
men ! our country yet remains ! By that dread name, we 
wave the sword on high — and swear, for her to live ! — with 
her to die ! " t#*He said ": and on the rampart heights ar- 
rayed his trusty warriors, few, but undismayed ! firm-paced 
and slow, a horrid front they form, still as the breeze, but 
dreadful as the storm ! Low, murmuring sounds along their 
banners fly — Revenge or Death ! the watchword and 
reply ; then pealed the notes omnipotent to charm, and the 
loud tocsin tolled their last alarm ! \_ 

In vain, alas ! in vain ye gallant few, from rank to rank 
your volley'd thunder flew ! Oh, bloodiest picture in the 
book of time, Sarmatia fell — unwept — without a crime ! found 
not a generous friend — a pitying foe — strength in her arms, 
nor mercy in her woe ! Dropped from her nerveless grasp 
the shattered spear — closed her bright eye, and curbed her 
high career ! Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell, 
and Freedom shrieked — as Kosciusko fell j^The sun went 
down, nor ceased the carnage there ; tumultuous murder 
shook the midnight air — on Prague's proud arch the fires of 
ruin glow, his blood-dyed waters murmuring far below. The 
storm prevails ! the rampart yields away — bursts the wild 
cry of horror and dismay ! Hark ! as the smoldering piles 
with thunder fall, a thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy 
call ! Earth shook ! red meteors flashed along the sky ! and 
conscious Nature shuddered at the cry ! U- — 

Departed spirits of the mighty dead ! ye that at Mara- 
thon and Leuctra bled ! Friends of the world ! restore 
your swords to man ; fight in his sacred cause, and lead the 
van ! Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone, and make 



A MAN S A MAN FOR A THAT. 25 

her arm puissant as your own ! Oh ! once again to Free- 
dom's cause return the Patriot Tell — the Bruce of Ban- 
nockburn ! 



A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT. 
Robert Burns. 

Is there, for honest poverty, 

Wha hangs his head, and a' that ? 
The coward-slave, we pass him by, 
We dare be poor for a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Our toils obscure, and a' that, 
The rank is but the guinea stamp, 
The man's the gowd for a' that. 

What tho' on hamely fare we dine, 

Wear hodden gray, and a' that. 
Gie fools their silks and knaves their wine, 
A man's a man for a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Their tinsel show, and a' that ; 
The honest man, though e'er sae poor, 
Is king o' men for a' that. 

You see yon birkie ca'd a lord, 

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that ; 
Though hundreds worship at his word, 
He's but a coof for a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that, 

His riband, star, and a' that ; 
The man of independent mind, 
He looks and laughs at a' that. 

A prince can mak a belted knight, 

A marquis, duke, and a' that ; 
But an honest man's aboon his might, 
Guid faith he mauna fa' that ! 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Their dignities, and a' that ; 
The pith o' sense and pride o' worth 
Are higher ranks than a' that. 



26 THE DYING ALCHEMIST. 

Then let us pray that come it may, 

As come it will, for a' that, 
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth. 
May bear the gree, and a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that, 

It's coming yet, for a' that, 
When man to man, the warld o'er, 
Shall brothers be, for a' that. 



THE DYING ALCHEMIST. 
Nathaniel P. Willis. 

(A bridged?) 

The fire beneath his crucible was low ; 
Yet still it burned ; and ever as his thoughts 
Grew insupportable, he raised himself 
Upon his wasted arm, and stirred the coals 
With difficult energy ; and when the rod 
Fell from his nerveless fingers, and his eye 
Felt faint within its socket, he shrunk back 
Upon his pallet, and with unclosed lips 
Muttered a curse on death. The silent room, 
From its dim corners, mockingly gave back 
His rattling breath ; the humming in the fire 
Had the distinctness of a knell ; and when 
Duly the antique horologe beat one, 
He drew a vial from beneath his head, 
And drank. And instantly his lips compressed., 
And, with a shudder in his skeleton frame, 
He rose with supernatural strength, and sat 
Upright, and communed with himself : 

" I did not think to die 
Till I had finished what I had to do ; 
I thought to pierce the eternal secret through 

With this my mortal eye ; 
I felt — O God ! It seemeth even now 
This cannot be the death-dew on my brow ! 

" And yet it is. I feel, 
Of this dull sickness at my heart, afraid ; 



THE DYING ALCHEMIST. 2J 

And in my eyes the death-sparks flash and fade ; 

And something seems to steal 
Over my bosom like a frozen hand, 
Binding its pulses with an icy band. 

" Grant me another year, 
God of my spirit ! — but a day, — to win 
Something to satisfy this thirst within ! 

I would know something here ! 
Break for me but one seal that is unbroken. 
Speak for me but one word that is unspoken ! 

" Vain, vain ! my brain is turning 
With a swift dizziness, and my heart grows sick, 
And these hot temple-throbs come fast and thick, 

And I am freezing, burning, 
Dying, — O God ! if I might only live ! 
My vial — Ha ! it thrills me ! — I revive. 

" Oh, but for time to track 
The upper stars into the pathless sky ; 
To see the invisible spirits, eye to eye ; 

To hurl the lightning back ; 
To tread unhurt the sea's dim-lighted halls ; 
To chase day's chariot to the horizon walls ; 

" And more, much more, for now 
The life-sealed fountains of my nature move 
To nurse and purify this human love, 

To clear the god-like brow 
Of weakness and mistrust, and bow it down, 
Worthy and beautiful, to the much-loved one. 

" This were indeed to feel 
The soul-thirst slaken at the living stream. 
To live, — O God ! that life is but a dream ! 

And death — Aha ! I reel ! 
Dim ! dim ! I faint ! darkness comes o'er my eye ! 
Cover me ! save me ! God of Heaven, I die ! " 

'Twas morning, and the old man lay alone : 
No friend had closed his eyelids ; and his lips. 
Open and ashy pale, the expression wore 



28 OPINIONS STRONGER THAN ARMIES. 

Of his death-struggle. His long, silvery hair 
Lay on his hollow temples thin and wild, 
His frame was wasted, and his features wan 
And haggard as with want, and in his palm 
His nails were driven deep, as if the throe 
Of the last agony had wrung him sore. 
And thus had passed from its unequal frame 
A soul of fire, a sun-bent eagle stricken 
From his high soaring down, an instrument 
Broken with its own compass. Oh, how poor 
Seems the rich gift of genius, when it lies, 
Like the adventurous bird that hath outflown 
His strength upon the sea, ambition wrecked ! 
A thing the thrush might pity, as she sits 
Brooding in quiet on her lowly nest. 



OPINIONS STRONGER THAN ARMIES. 
Luther A. Ostrander. 

There is a vignette representing a heavy sword thrown 
Across a dozen quills, crushing and destroying them. In the 
thrilling times of war, the picture seems the illustration of 
truth rather than the artist's fancy. When governments lay 
their hands on their sword-hilts, and nations marshal them- 
selves in battle array, it is natural to believe the sword mightier 
than the pen, armies stronger than opinions. Strength is a 
force known only in its results. An army is a gigantic force. 
It marches forth with roll of drums, and proud banners 
streaming, bayonets gleaming in the sunlight. Earth 
trembles under its measured tread, and it is full of grandeur. 
It sweeps to the battle with the fury of a tempest ; dark 
battalions roll together ; squadrons charge with flashing 
sabers, and dense sulphurous clouds hail iron. It returns 
with honored scars, torn battle-flags, and shouts of victory. 

Military strength is physical strength. It defies reason ; 
hews congenial States asunder ; chains in repulsive union 
the deadliest enemies. What is the strength of opinions? 
Opinions are ideas, condensed thoughts. They, too, are 
force ; but a force intellectual and enduring. Inventing a 
press, they print a Bible, and stamp progress on every page 
of history. Under their influence the hydra, terrible upon 
the waters, and the dragon* vomiting fire, are metamorphosed 



THE VAGABONDS. 29 

into the steamship and locomotive ; the savage becomes a 
man ; he dives into the profundity of philosophy, flashes his 
thoughts over magnetic wires, and, with the airy lightness of 
genius, soars to the farthest bounds of immensity. Are not 
opinions stronger than armies ? The convulsed lips of the 
poisoned Socrates proclaim it ; the classic periods of Tully 
proclaim it ; the mute eloquence of the past and the fiery 
logic of the present proclaim it. It may be objected that 
Marathon, Yorktown, and Gettysburg were glorious triumphs 
of arms. True ; but were they not also glorious triumphs of 
opinions ? What were those conquering armies but embodi- 
ments of a lofty patriotism, the genius of liberty, and the 
spirit of freedom ? Our glorious victories — what are they 
but drum-beats that keep time to the march of opinions ? 
Our armies — they are not composed of vassals, but of think- 
ers, voters, men — high-minded men, who use the ballot as 
wisely as they wield the sword — sustaining with brain, sweat, 
and heart-blood their grand opinions. Armies are the 
towers of strength which men have built ; opinions are the 
surging waves of the ocean which God has made, beating 
against those towers and crumbling them to dust. 

The dim light of the past reveals to us the forms of gigantic 
empires, whose mighty armies seem omnipotent. A halo of 
martial glory surrounds them, and then fades away ; their 
marble thrones crumble ; their iron limbs are broken ; their 
proud navies are sunk. To-day, History, dipping its pencil 
in sunlight, records the sublime triumphs of opinions. The 
sword rounds the periods of the pen ; the ballot wings the 
bullet ; school-houses accompany cannon-balls ; and princi- 
ples bombard forts and thunder from ironclads. Glorious 
is the morning dawn ! Science fringes the lands of darkness 
with a border of light ; and the sun of Christianity, glowing 
along the Eastern waters, arches the bow of promise above 
the golden Western hills. 



THE VAGABONDS. 
J. T. Trowbridge. 

We are two travelers, Roger and I. 

Roger's my dog — Come here, you scamp ! 
Jump for the gentleman — mind your eye ! 

Over the table — look out for the lamp ! — 



30 THE VAGABONDS. 

The rogue is growing a little old ; 

Five years we've tramped through wind and weather, 
And slept out doors when nights were cold, 

And ate, and drank — and starved together. 

We've learned what comfort is, I tell you : 

A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, 
A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow, 

The paw he holds up there has been frozen), 
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle 

(This out door business is bad for strings), 
Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle, 

And Roger and I set up for kings ! 

No, thank you, Sir, I never drink. 

Roger and I are exceedingly moral. 
Aren't we, Roger ? see him wink. 

Weil, something hot then, we wont quarrel. 
He's thirsty, too — see him nod his head ? 

What a pity, Sir, that dogs can't talk ; 
He understands every word that's said, 

And he knows good milk from water and chalk. 

The truth is, Sir, now I reflect, 

I've been so sadly given to grog, 
I wonder I've not lost the respect 

(Here's to you, Sir !) even of my dog. 
But he sticks by through thick and thin, 

And this old coat with its empty pockets, 
And rags that smell of tobacco and gin, 

He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets. 

There isn't another creature living 

Would do it, and prove, through every disaster, 
So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving, 

To such a miserable, thankless master. 
No, Sir ! see him wag his tail and grin — 

By George ! it makes my old eyes water — 
That is, there's something in this gin 

That chokes a fellow, but no matter ! 

We'll have some music, if you're willing, 

And Roger (hem ! what a plague a cough is, Sir !) 



THE VAGABONDS. 31 

Shall march a little. Start, you villain ! 

Paws up ! eyes front ! salute your officer ! 
'Bout face ! attention ! take your rifle ! 

(Some dogs have arms, you see). Now hold 
Your cap while the gentlemen give a trifle 

To aid a poor old patriot soldier ! 

March ! Halt ! Now show how the Rebel shakes 

When he stands up to hear his sentence : 
Now tell me how many drams it takes 

To honor a jolly new acquaintance. 
Five yelps, — that's five ; he's mighty knowing ; 

The night's before us, fill the glasses ; 
Quick, Sir ! I'm ill, my brain is going ? — 

Some brandy, — thank you ; — there, — it passes ! 

Why not reform ? That's easily said ; 

But I've gone through such wretched treatment 
Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread, 

And scarce remembering what meat meant, 
That my poor stomach's past reform ; 

And there are times when, mad with thinking, 
I'd sell out heaven for something warm 

To prop a horrible inward sinking. 

Is there a way to forget to think ? 

At your age, Sir, home, fortune, friends, 
A dear girl's love, — but I took to drink ; — 

The same old story ; you know how it ends. 
If you could have seen these classic features, — 

You needn't laugh, Sir ; I was not then 
Such a burning libel on God's creatures : 

I was one of your handsome men — 1/ 

If you had seen her, so fair, so young, 

Whose head was happy on this breast ; 
If you could have heard the songs I sung 

When the wine went round, you wouldn't have guess'd 
That ever I, Sir, should be straying 

From door to door, with fiddle and dog, 
Ragged and penniless, and playing 

To you to-night for a glass of grog. 



32 NO GOD. 

She's married since, — a parson's wife, 

'Twas better for her that we should part ; 
Better the soberest, prosiest life 

Than a blasted home and a broken heart. 
I have seen her — once : I was weak and spent 

On the dusty road ; a carriage stopped, 
But little she dreamed as on she went, 

Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped. 

You've set me talking, Sir ; I'm sorry ; 

It makes me wild to think of the change ! 
What do you care for a beggar's story ? 

Is it amusing ? you find it strange ? 
I had a mother so proud of me ! 

'Twas well she died before — Do you know 
If the happy spirits in heaven can see 

The ruin and wretchedness here below ? 

Another glass, and strong, to deaden 

This pain ; then Roger and I will start. 
I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden, 

Aching thing, in place of a heart ? 
He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could, 

No doubt, remembering things that were,— 
A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food, 

And himself a sober, respectable cur. 

I'm better now ; that glass was warming — 

You rascal ! limber your lazy feet ! 
We must be fiddling and performing 

For supper and bed, or starve in the street. 
Not a very gay life to lead, you think. 

But soon we shall go where lodgings are free, 
And the sleepers need neither vituals or drink ; — 

The sooner, the better for Roger and me. 



NO GOD. 
N. K. Richardson. 
Is there no God ? The white rose made reply, 
My ermine robe was woven in the sky. 
The blue-bird warbled from his shady bower, 
My plumage fell from hands that made the flower. 



NO GOD. 33 

Is there no God? The silvery ocean spray 
At the vile question startles in dismay ; 
And, tossing mad against earth's impious clod, 
Impatient thunders — yes, there is a God ! 

Is there no God ? The greedy worm that raves 
In sportive glee amid the gloom of graves, 
Proves a Divinity supremely good, 
For daily morsels sent of flesh and blood. 

Is there no God? The dying Christian's hand, 
Pale with disease, points to a better land ; 
And, ere his body mingles with the sod, 
He, sweetly smiling, softly murmurs — God. 

No God ! Who broke the shackles from the slave? 
Who gave this bleeding nation power to save 
Its Flag and Union in the hour of gloom, 
And lay rebellion's spirit in the tomb ? 

We publish God ! — The towering mountains cry. 
Jehovah's name is blazoned on the sky, 
The dancing streamlet and the golden grain, 
The lightning gleam, the thunder, and the rain. 

The dew-drop diamond on the lily's breast, 
The tender leaf by every breeze caressed, 
The shell, whose pearly bosom ocean laves, 
And sea-weed bowing to a troop of waves ; 

The glow of Venus and the glare of Mars, 

The tranquil beauty of the lesser stars ; 

The eagle, soaring in majestic flight, 

The morning bursting from the clouds of night, 

The child's fond prattle and the mother's prayer, 
Angelic voices floating on the air, 
Mind, heart, and soul, the ever-restless breath, 
And all the myriad-mysteries of death. 

Beware ye doubting, disbelieving throng, 
Whose sole ambition is to favor wrong ; 
There is a God ; remember while ye can, 
" His Spirit will not always strive with man." 



34 SAM WELLER S VALENTINE. 

SAM WELLER'S VALENTINE. 
Charles Dickens. 

(A dapted.~) 

" I've done now," said Sam, with slight embarrassment ; 
" I've been a writin'." 

" So I see," replied Mr. Weller. " Not to any young 
'ooman, I hope, Sammy." 

"Why, it's no use a sayin' it ain't," replied Sam. " It's a 
walentine." 

" A what ? " exclaimed Mr. Weller, apparently horror- 
stricken by the word. 

" A walentine," replied Sam. 

"Samivel, Samivel," said Mr. Weller, in reproachful ac- 
cents, " I didn't think you'd ha' done it. Arter the warnin' 
you've had o' your father's wicious propensities ; arter all 
I've said to you upon this here wery subject ; arter actiwally 
seein' and bein' in the company o' your own stepmother, 
vich I should ha' thought was a moral lesson as no man 
could ever ha' forgotten to his dyin' day ! I didn't think 
you'd ha' done it, Sammy, I didn't think you'd ha' done it." 

" Wot's the matter now ? " said Sam. 

" Nev'r mind, Sammy," replied Mr. Weller, "it'll be a 
wery agonizing trial to me at my time o' life, but I'm pretty 
tough, that's vun consolation, as the wery old turkey re- 
marked ven the farmer said he was afeerd he should be 
obliged to kill him for the London market." 

" Wot'll be a trial ? " inquired Sam. 

" To see you married, Sammy ; to see you a deluded 
wictim, and thinkin' in your innocence that it's all wery 
capital," replied Mr. Weller. " It's a dreadful trial to a 
father's feelin's, that 'ere, Sammy." 

" Nonsense," said Sam. " I ain't goin' to get married ; 
don't you fret yourself about that. I know you're a judge 
o' these things ; order in your pipe, and I'll read you the 
letter,— there ! " 

Sam dipped his pen into the ink to be ready for any cor- 
rections, and began with a very theatrical air — . 

" ' Lovely creetur J ' " 

" * Taint in poetry, is it ? " interposed the father. 

" No, no," replied Sam. 

" Wery glad to hear it," said Mr. Weller. " Poetry's 
unnat'ral. No man ever talked in poetry, 'cept a beadle on 



SAM WELLER S VALENTINE. 35 

boxin' day, or Warren's blackin', or Rowland's oil, or some 
o' them low fellows. Never let yourself down to talk poetry, 
my boy. Begin again, Sammy." 

" 'Lovely creetur' i feel myself shammed — ' " 

" That ain't proper," said Mr. Weller, taking his pipe 
fro n his mouth. 

"' No : it ain't shammed," observed Sam, holding the letter 
up to the light, "it's ' shamed,' there's a blot there ; 'i feel 
myself ashamed.' " 

" Wery good," said Mr. Weller. " Go on." 

" ' Feel myself ashamed and completely cir — .' I forgot 
wot this 'ere word is," said Sam, scratching his head with the 
p -n, in vain attempts to remember. 

" Why don't you look at it, then ?" inquired Mr. Weller. 

" So I am a lookin' at it," replied Sam, " but there's 
another blot : here's a ' c,' and a ' i,' and a ' d.' " 

"Circumvvented, p'rhaps," suggested Mr. Weller. 

" No, it ain't that," said Sam : " ' circumscribed,' that's 
it." 

" That ain't as good a word as circumwented, Sammy," 
said Mr. Weller gravely. 

" Think not ? " said Sam. 

u Nothin' like it," replied his father. 

11 But don't you think it means more ? " inquired Sam. 

" Veil, p'rhaps it's a more tenderer word," said Mr. Weller, 
after a few moments' reflection. " Go on, Sammy." 

- ' Feel myself ashamed and completely circumscribed in a 
dressin' of you, for you are a nice girl, and nothin' but it.' " 

" That's a wery pretty sentiment," said the elder Mr. 
Weller, removing his pipe to make way for the remark. 

"Yes, think it's rayther good," observed Sam, highly 
flattered. 

" Wot I like in that 'ere style of writin'," said the elder 
Mr. Weller, " is, that there ain't no callin' names in it, — no 
Wenuses, nor nothing' o' that kind ; wot's the good o' callin' 
a young 'ooman a Wenus or a angel, Sammy ? " 

" Ah ! what indeed ? " replied Sam. 

" You might just as well call her a griffin, or a unicorn, 
or a king's arms at once, which is wery well known to be a 
col-lection o' fabulous animals," added Mr. Weller. 

u Just as well," replied Sam. 

" Drive on, Sam," said Mr. Weller. 
■ Sam complied with the request, and proceeded as follows : 



36 SAM weller's valentine. 

his father continuing to smoke with a mixed expression of 
wisdom and complacency. 

" 'Afore i see you i thought all women was alike.' " 

" So they are/' observed the elder Mr. Weller, emphati- 
cally. 

" ' But now,' " continued Sam, " ' now i find what a reg'lar 
soft-headed, ink-red'lous turnip i must ha' been, for there 
ain't nobody like you, though i like you better than nothin' 
at all.' I thought it best to make that rayther strong," said 
Sam, looking up. 

Mr. Weller nodded approvingly, and Sam resumed. 

" 'So I take the privilidge of the day, Mary, my dear, — as 
the gen'lem'n in difficulties did, ven he valked out of a Sun- 
day, — to tell you that the first and only time i see you your 
likeness wos took on my hart in much quicker time and 
brighter colors than ever a likeness was taken by the profeel 
macheen (which p'rhaps you may have heerd on Mary, my 
dear), although it does finish a portrait and put the frame 
and glass on complete with a hook at the end to hang it up 
by, and all in two minutes and a quarter.' " 

" I am afeerd that werges on the poetical, Sammy," said 
Mr. Weller, dubiously. 

" No, it don't," replied Sam, reading on very quickly to 
avoid contesting the point. 

" ' Except of me, Mary, my dear, as your walentine, and 
think over what I've said. My dear Mary I will now con- 
clude.' That's all," said Sam. 

" That's rayther a sudden pull up, ain't it, Sammy ? " in- 
quired Mr. Weller. 

" Not a bit on it," said Sam ; " she'll vish there wos more, 
and that's the great art o' letter writin'." 

" Well," said Mr. Weller, " there's somethin' in that ; and 
I wish your mother-in-law 'ud only conduct her conversa- 
tion on the same gen-teel principle. Ain't you a goin' to 
sign it ? " 

" That's the difficulty," said Sam ; " I don't know what 
to sign it." 

"Sign it — Veller," said the oldest surviving proprietor of 
that name. 

''Won't do," said Sam. "Never sign a walentine with 
your own name." 

" Sign it Pickvick, then," said Mr. Weller ; "it's a werry 
good name, and a easy one to spell." 



ANNABEL LEE. 37 

" The wery thing," said Sam. " I could end with a werse : 
what do you think ? " 

" I don't like it, Sam," rejoined Mr. Weller. " I never 
know'd a respectable coachman as wrote poetry ; 'cept one 
as made an affectin' copy o' werses the night afore he wos 
hung for a highway robbery, and he was only a Cambervell, 
so even that's no rule." 

But Sam was not to be dissuaded from the poetical idea 
that had occurred to him, so he signed the letter, — 
" Your love-sick 
Pickwick." 



ANNABEL LEE. 
Edgar A. Poe. 
It was many and many a year ago, 

In a kingdom by the sea, 
That a maiden there lived whom you may know 

By the name of Annabel Lee ; 
And this maiden she lived with no other thought 
Than to love and be loved by me. 

/ was a child and she was a child, 

In this kingdom by the sea; 
But we loved with a love that was more than love, 

I and my Annabel Lee ; 
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven 

Coveted her and me. 

And this was the reason that long ago, 

In this kingdom by the sea, 
A wind blew out a cloud, chilling 

My beautiful Annabel Lee. 
So that her high-born kinsman came 

And bore her away from me, 
To shut her up in a sepulcher 

In this kingdom by the sea. 

The angels, not half so happy in heaven, 

Went envying her and me : 
Yes ! that was the reason (as all men know 

In this kingdom by the sea) 
That the wind came out of a cloud by night 

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 



38 THE CATARACT OF LODORE. 

But our love it was stronger by far than the love 
Of those who were older than we — 

Of many far wiser than we ; 

And neither the angels in heaven above, 

Nor the demons down under the sea, 

Can ever dissever my love for the soul 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee : 
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side 
Of my darling — my darling — my life and my bride, 

In the sepulcher there by the sea, 

In her tomb by the sounding sea. 



THE CATARACT OF LODORE. 
Robert Southey. 
How does the water come down from Lodore ? 
Here it comes sparkling, 
And there it lies darkling; 
Here smoking and frothing, 
Its tumult and wrath in, 
It hastens along, conflicting and strong; 
Now striking and raging, 
As if a war waging, 
Its caverns and rocks among. 
Rising and leaping, 
Sinking and creeping, 
Swelling and flinging, 
Showering and springing, 
Eddying and whisking, 
Spouting and frisking ; 
Turning and twisting, 
Around and around, 

Collecting, disjecting. 
With endless rebound. 
Smiting and fighting, 
In turmoil delighting, 
Confounding, astounding, 
Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound. 



THE CATARACT OF LODORE. 39 

Receding and speeding, 
And shocking and rocking, 
And darting and parting, 
And threading and spreading, 
And whizzing and hissing, 
And dripping and skipping, 
And hitting and spitting, 
And shining and twining, 
And rattling and battling, 
And shaking and quaking, 
And pouring and roaring, 
And waving and raving, 
And tossing and crossing, 
And running and stunning, 
And hurrying and skurrying, 
And glittering and frittering, 
And gathering and feathering, 
And dinning and spinning, 
And foaming and roaming, 
And hopping and dropping, 
And working and jerking, 
And guggling and struggling 
And heaving and cleaving, 
And thundering and floundering ; 
And falling and brawling and sprawling, 
And driving and riving and striving, 
And sprinkling and crinkling and twinkling, 
And sounding and bounding and rounding, 
And bubbling and troubling and doubling ; 
Dividing and gliding and sliding, 
Grumbling and rumbling and tumbling, 
Clattering and battering and shattering ; 
And gleaming and streaming and skimming and beaming, 
And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing, 
And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping, 
And curling and whirling and purling and twirling ; 
Retreating and meeting and beating and sheeting, 
Delaying and straying and spraying and playing, 
Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing. 
Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling ; 
And thumping and bumping and flumping and jumping, 
And thrashing and clashing and flashing and splashing; 



49 MARSHAL NEY S LAST CHARGE AT WATERLOO. 

And so never ending, 
But always descending, 
Sounds and motions forever and ever are blending, 
All at once and all o'er, 
With a mighty uproar ; 
And this way the water comes down at Lodore. 



MARSHAL NEY'S LAST CHARGE AT WATERLOO. 
J. T. Headley. 

The whole continental struggle exhibited no sublimer 
spectacle than the last great effort of Napoleon to save his 
sinking empire. Europe had been put upon the plains of 
Waterloo to be battled for. The greatest military energy 
and skill the world possessed had been tasked to the utmost 
during the day. Thrones were tottering on the ensanguined 
field, and the shadows of fugitive kings flitted through the 
smoke of battle. Bonaparte's star trembled in the zenith, 
now blazing out in its ancient splendor, now suddenly paling 
before his anxious eye. 

At length, when the Prussians appeared on the field, he 
resolved to stake Europe on one bold throw. He committed 
himself and France to Ney, and saw his empire rest on a 
single charge. The intense anxiety with which he watched 
the advance of the column, the terrible suspense he suffered 
when the smoke of battle concealed it from sight, and the 
litter despair of his great heart when the curtain lifted over 
a fugitive army, and the despairing shriek rang out on every 
side, " La garde recule, La garde recule," make us, for the 
moment, forget all the carnage in sympathy with his distress. 

Ney felt the pressure of the immense responsibility on his 
brave heart, and resolved not to prove unworthy of the great 
trust committed to his care. Nothing could be more impos- 
ing than the movement of the grand column to the assault. 
That guard had never yet recoiled before a human foe ; and 
the allied forces beheld with awe its firm and terrible advance 
to the final charge. 

For a moment the batteries stopped playing, and the firing 
ceased along the British lines, as without the beating of a 
drum, or the blast of a bugle, they moved in dead silence 
over the plain. The next moment the artillery opened, and 
the head of the gallant column seemed to sink down ; yet 



LOVE OF COUNTRY. 41 

they neither stopped nor faltered. Dissolving squadrons and 
whole battalions disappearing, one after another, in the 
destructive fire, affected not their steady courage. The ranks 
closed up as before, and each, treading over his fallen 
comrade, pressed firmly on. The horse which Ney rode fell 
under him, and he had scarcely mounted another, before it 
also sank to the earth. Again and again did that unflinching 
man feel his steed sink down, till five had been shot under 
him. Then, with his uniform riddled with bullets, and his 
face singed and blackened with powder, he marched on foot, 
with drawn saber, at the head of his men. 

In vain did the artillery hurl its storm of fire and lead into 
that living mass ; up to the very muzzles they pressed, and, 
driving the artillery-men from their places, pushed on through 
the English lines. But at that moment a file of soldiers who 
had lain flat on the ground behind a low ridge of earth, 
suddenly rose and poured a volley into their very faces. 
Another and another followed, till one broad sheet of flame 
rolled on their bosoms, and in such a fierce and unexpected 
flow, that human courage could not withstand it. They 
reeled, shook, staggered back, then turned and fled. 

The fate of Napoleon was writ. The star that had blazed 
so brightly over the world, went down in blood ; and the 
Bravest of the Brave had fought his last battle. 



LOVE OF COUNTRY. 

Sir Walter Scott. 

Breathes there a man with soul so dead, 
Who never to himself hath said, 

This is my own, my native land ! 
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn' 
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd 

From wandering on a foreign strand ? 
If such there breathe, go mark him well 
For him no minstrel raptures swell ; 
High though his titles, proud his name, 
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim ; 
Despite those titles, power and pelf, 
The wretch, concentered all in self, 
Living, shall forfeit fair renown, 
And, doubly dying, shall go down 



42 THE INDIAN GIRL S LAMENT. 

To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, 
Unwept, unhonor'd, and unsung. 
O Caledonia ! stern and wild, 
Meet nurse for a poetic child ! 
Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, 
Land of the mountain and the flood, 
Land of my sires ! What mortal hand 
•Can e'er untie the filial band 
That knits me to thy rugged strand ! 
Still, as I view each well-known scene, 
Think what is now and what hath been, 
Seems as to me, of all bereft, 
Sole friends thy woods and streams were left ; 
And thus I love them better still, 
Even in extremity of ill. 
By Yarrow's stream still let me stray, 
Though none should guide my feeble way ; 
Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break, 
Although it chill my wither'd cheek ; 
Still lay my head by Teviot stone, 
Though there, forgotten and alone, 
The bard may draw his parting groan. 



THE INDIAN GIRL'S LAMENT. 
William Cullen Bryant. 

An Indian girl was sitting where 
Her lover, slain in battle, slept ; 

Her maiden veil, her own black hair, 
Came down o'er eyes that wept ; 

And wildly, in her woodland tongue, 

This sad and simple lay she sung : 

I've pulled away the shrubs that grew 
Too close above thy sleeping head, 

And broke the forest boughs that threw 
Their shadows o'er thy bed, 

That shining from the sweet southwest 

The sunbeams might rejoice thy rest. 

It was a weary, weary road 

That led thee to the pleasant coast, 



THE INDIAN GIRL'S LAMENT. 43 

Where thou, in his serene abode, 

Hast met thy father's ghost ; 
Where everlasting autumn lies 
On yellow woods and sunny skies. 

'Twas I the broidered mocsin made, 

That shod thee for that distant land ; 
'Twas I thy bow and arrows laid 

Beside thy still cold hand ; 
Thy bow in many a battle bent, 
Thy arrows never vainly sent. 

With wampum belts I crossed thy breast, 

And wrapped thee in the bison's hide, 
And laid the food that pleased thee best, 

In plenty, by thy side ; 
And decked thee bravely, as became 
A warrior of illustrious name. 

Thou'rt happy now, for thou hast passed 

The long dark journey of the grave, 
And in the land of light, at last, 

Hast joined the good and brave ; 
Amid the flushed and balmy air, 
The bravest and the loveliest there. 

Yet, oft to thine own Indian maid 

Even there thy thoughts will earthward stray, — 
To her who sits where thou wert laid, 

And weeps the hours away, 
Yet almost can her grief forget, 
To think that thou dost love her yet. 

And thou, by one of those still lakes 

That in a shining cluster lie, 
On which the south wind scarcely breaks 

The image of the sky, 
A bower for thee and me hast made 
Beneath the many-colored shade. 

And thou dost wait and watch to meet 

My spirit sent to join the blessed, 
And, wondering what detains my feet 

From the bright land of rest, 
Dost seem, in every sound, to hear 
The rustling of my footsteps near. 



44 THE ARCTIC LOVER. 

THE ARCTIC LOVER. 
William Cullen Bryant. 

Gone is the long, long winter night, 

Look, my beloved one! 
How glorious, through his depths of light, 

Rolls the majestic sun. 
The willows, waked from winter's death, 

Give out a fragrance like thy breath — 
The summer is begun! 

Ay, 'tis the long bright summer day : 
Hark, to that mighty crash! 

The loosened ice-ridge breaks away — 
The smitten waters flash. 

Seaward the glittering mountains rides, 

While down its green translucent sides, 
The foamy torrents dash. 

Sje, love, my boat is moored for thee, 

By ocean's weedy floor — 
The petrel does not skim the sea 

More swiftly than my oar. 
We'll go where, on the rocky isles, 
Her eggs the screaming sea-fowl piles 

Beside the pebbly shore. 

Or, bide thou where the poppy blows, 
With wind-flowers frail and fair, 

While I, upon his isle of snows, 
Seek and defy the bear. 

Fierce though he be, and huge of frame, 

This arm his savage strength shall tame, 
And drag him from his lair. 

With crimson sky and flamy cloud 

Bespeak the summer o'er, 
And the dead valleys wear a shroud 

Of snow that melt no more, 
I'll build of ice thy winter home, 
With glistening walls and glassy dome, 

And spread with skins the floor. 



THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE. 45 

The white fox by thy couch shall play; 

And from the frozen skies 
The meteors of a mimic day 

Shall flash upon thine eyes. 
And I — for such thy vow — -meanwhile 
Shall hear thy voice and see thy smile, 

Till that long midnight flies. 



THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE. 
Carl Schurz. 

Let your imagination carry you back to the year 1776. 
You stand in the hall of the old Colonial Court House of 
Philadelphia. Through the open door you see the Conti- 
nental Congress assembled ; the moment for a great de- 
cision is drawing near. 

The first little impulses to the general upheaval of the 
popular spirit, the Tea Tax, the Stamp Act, drop into in- 
significance ; they are almost forgotten ; the revolutionary 
spirit has risen far above them. It disdains to justify itself 
with petty pleadings ; it spurns diplomatic equivocation ; it 
puts the claim to independence upon the broad basis of 
eternal rights, as self-evident as the sun, as broad as the 
world, as common as the air of heaven. 

The struggles of the colonies against the usurping govern- 
ment of Great Britain has risen to the proud dimensions of 
a struggle of man for liberty and equality. Not only the 
supremacy of Old England is to be shaken off, but a new 
organization of society is to be built up, on the basis of 
liberty and equality. That is the Declaration of Independ- 
ence ! That is the American Revolution ! 

It is a common thing that men of a coarse cast of mind 
so lose themselves in the mean pursuit of selfish ends as to 
become insensible to the grand and sublime. Measuring 
every character and every event in history by the low 
standard of their own individualities, incapable of grasping 
broad and generous ideas, they will belittle every great 
thing they cannot deny and drag down every struggle of 
principle to the sordid arena of aspiring selfishness. 

Eighteen hundred years ago there were men who saw in 
incipient Christianity nothing but a mere wrangle between 
Jewish theologians, got up by a carpenter's boy, and carried 



46 the seminole's reply. 

on by a few crazy fishermen. Three hundred years ago 
there were men who saw in the great reformatory move- 
ment of the sixteenth century, not the emancipation of the 
individual conscience, but a mere fuss kicked up by a Ger- 
man monk, who wanted to get married. Two hundred 
years ago there were men who saw in Hampden's refusal to 
pay the ship's money, not a bold vindication of constitu- 
tional liberty, but the crazy antics of a man who was mean 
enough to quarrel about a few shillings. 

And now, there are men who see in the Declaration of 
Independence and the American Revolution, not the reor- 
ganization of human society upon the basis of liberty and 
equality, but a dodge of some English colonists who were 
unwilling to pay their taxes. 

But the dignity of great characters and the glory of great 
events find their vindication in the consciences of the people. 
It is in vain for demagogism to raise its short arms against 
the Truth of History. The Declaration of Independence 
stands there. No candid man ever read it without seeing 
and feeling that every word of it was dictated by deep and 
earnest thought, and that every sentence of it bears the 
stamp of philosophic generality. 

It is the summing up of the results of the philosophical 
development of the age; the practical embodiment of the 
progressive ideas, which, far from being confined to the 
narrow limits of the English colonies, pervaded the very 
atmosphere of all civilized countries. 



THE SEMINOLE'S REPLY. 
G. W. Patten. 

Blaze, with your serried columns ! 

I will not bend the knee ! 
The shackles ne'er again shall bind 

The arm which now is free. 
I've mailed it with the thunder, 

When the tempest muttered low ; 
And where it falls, ye well may dread 

The lightning of its blow ! 

I've scared ye in the city, 
I've scalped ye on the plain.; 



THE BRIEFLESS BARRISTER. 47 

Go, count your chosen, where they fell 

Beneath my leaden rain ! 
I scorn your proffered treaty ! 

The pale-face I defy ! 
Revenge is stamped upon my spear, 

And blood my battle-cry ! 

Ye've trailed me through the forest, 

Ye've tracked me o'er the stream ; 
And, struggling through the everglade, 

Your bristling bayonets gleam ; 
But I stand as should a warrior, 

With his rifle and his spear ; 
The scalp of vengeance still is red, 

And warns ye, — Come not here ! 

I loathe ye in my bosom, 

I scorn ye with my eye, 
And I'll taunt ye with my latest breath, 

And fight ye till I die ! 
I ne'er will ask ye quarter, 

And I ne'er will be your slave ; 
But I'll swim the sea of slaughter, 

Till I sink beneath the wave ! 



THE BRIEFLESS BARRISTER. 
J. G. Saxe. 

An attorney was taking a turn, 
In shabby habiliments drest ; 

His coat it was shockingly worn, 
And the rust had invested his vest. 

His breeches had suffered a breach, 
His linen and worsted were worse ; 

He had scarce a whole crown in his hat, 
And not half a crown in his purse. 

And thus, as he wandered along, 
A cheerless and comfortless elf, 

He sought for relief in a song, 

Or complainingly talked to himself. 



48 THE BRIEFLESS BARRISTER. 

" Unfortunate man that I am ! 

I've never a client but grief ; 
The case is, I've no case at all, 

And in brief, I've ne'er had a brief ! 

"I've waited and waited in vain, 
Expecting an opening to find, 

Where an honest young lawyer might gain 
Some reward for the toil of his mind. 

" Tis not that I'm wanting in law, 

Or lack an intelligent face, 
That others have causes to plead, 

While I have to plead for a case. 

" Oh, how can a modest young man 

E'er hope for the smallest progression — 

The profession already so full 

Of lawyers so full of profession ! " 

While thus he was strolling around, 

His eye accidentally fell 
On a very deep hole in the ground, 

And he sighed to himself, "It is well ! " 

To curb his emotions, he sat 

On the curbstone the space of a minute, 
Then cried, " Here's an opening at last ! " 

And in less than a jiffy was in it ! 

Next morning twelve citizens came 

('Twas the coroner bade them attend), 

To the end that it might be determined 
How the man had determined his end ! 

" The man was a lawyer, I hear," 

Quoth the foreman who sat on the corse ; 

" A lawyer ? Alas ! " said another, 
" Undoubtedly died of remorse ! " 

A third said, " He knew the deceased, 
An attorney well versed in the laws, 

And as to the cause of his death, 

'Twas no doubt for the want of a cause." 



THE COLISEUM. 49 

The jury decided, at length, 

After solemnly weighing the matter, 

That the lawyer was drowned, because 
He could not keep his head above water ! 



THE COLISEUM. 

Lord Byron. 

The stars are forth, the moon above the tops 

Of the snow-shining mountains. Beautiful ! 

I linger yet with Nature, for the Night 

Hath been to me a more familiar face 

Than that of man ; and in her starry shade 

Of dim and solitary loveliness 

I learned the language of another world. 

I do remember me, that in my youth, 

When I was wandering — upon such a night 

I stood within the Coliseum's wall 

'Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome ; 

The trees which grew along the broken arches 

Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars 

Shone through the rents of ruin ; from afar 

The watch-dog bayed beyond the Tiber ; and 

More near from out the Caesars' palace came 

The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly, 

Of distant sentinels the fitful song 

Begun and died upon the gentle wind. 

Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach 

Appeared to skirt th' horizon, yet they stood 

Within a bowshot. Where the Csesars dwelt, 

And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst 

A grove which springs through leveled battlements. 

And twines its roots with the imperial hearths 

Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth ; 

But the gladiator's bloody circus stands, 

A noble wreck in ruinous perfection, 

While Caesar's chambers, and the Augustan halls, 

Grovel on earth in indistinct decay. 

And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon 

All this, and cast a wide and tender light, 

Which softened down the hoar austerity 

Of rugged desolation, and filled up, 



$0 CHARACTER OF NAPOLEON. 

As 'twere anew, the gaps of centuries ; 

Leaving that beautiful which still ^vas so, 

And making that which was not, till the place 

Became religion, and the heart ran o'er 

With silent worship of the great of old, — 

The dead, but sceptered sovereigns, who still rule 

Our spirits from their urns. 



CHARACTER OF NAPOLEON. 
Lamartine. 

Personal glory will be always spoken of as characterizing 
the age of Napoleon ; but it will never merit the praise 
bestowed upon that of Augustus, of Charlemagne, and of 
Louis XIV. There is no age ; there is only a name ; and 
this name signifies nothing to humanity, but himself. False 
in institutions, for he retrograded ; false in policy, for he 
debased ; false in morals, for he corrupted ; false in civili- 
zation, for he oppressed ; false in diplomacy, for he isolated, — 
he was only true in war, for he shed torrents of human blood. 

But what can we then allow him ? His individual genius 
was great, but it was the genius of materialism. His intelli- 
gence was vast and clear, but it was intelligence of calcula- 
tion. He counted, he weighed, he measured ; but he felt not ; 
he loved not ; he sympathized with none ; he was a statue, 
rather than a man. Therein lay his inferiority to Alexander 
and to Caesar ; he resembled more the Hannibal of the aris- 
tocracy. Few men have thus been molded, and molded 
cold. All was solid, nothing gushed forth in that mind, 
nothing was moved. His metallic nature was felt even in his 
style. 

He was, perhaps, the greatest writer of human events since 
Machiavel. Much superior to Csesar in the account of his 
campaigns, his style is not the written expression alone ; it is 
the action. Every sentence in his pages is, so to speak, the 
counterpart and counter-impression of the fact. There is 
neither a letter, a sound, or a color wasted between the fact 
and the word, and the word is himself. His phrases concise, 
but struck .off without ornament, recall those times when 
Bajazet and Charlemagne, not knowing how to write their 
names at the bottom of their imperial acts, dipped their hands 
in ink or blood, and applied them with all their articulations 



SONG OF MARION S MEN. 51 

impressed upon the parchment. It was not the signature ; 
it was the hand itself of the hero thus fixed eternally before 
the eyes ; and such were the pages of his campaign dictated 
by Napoleon, — the very soul of movement, of action, and of 
combat. 

This fame, which constituted his morality, his conscience, 
and his principle, he merited by his nature and his talents, 
from war and from glory ; and he has covered with it the 
name of France. France, obliged to accept the odium of 
his tyranny and his crime, should also accept his glory with 
a serious gratitude. She cannot separate her name from 
his without lessening it ; for it is equally intrusted with his 
greatness as with his faults. She wished for renown, and 
he has given it to her ; but what she principally owes to 
him is the celebrity she has gained in the world. 

This celebrity, which will descend to posterity, and which 
is improperly called glory, constituted his means and his 
end. Let him, therefore, enjoy it. The noise he has made 
will resound through the distant ages ; but let it not pervert 
posterity, or falsify the judgment of mankind. This man, 
one of the greatest creations of God, applied himself, with 
greater power than any other man ever possessed, to accu- 
mulate therefrom on his route, revolutions and ameliora- 
tions of the human mind, as if to check the march of ideas, 
and make all received truths retrace their steps. But time 
has overleaped him, and truths and ideas have resumed 
their ordinary current. He is admired as a soldier ; he is 
measured as a sovereign ; he is judged as a founder of 
nations ; great in action^ little in idea, nothing in virtue ; — 
such is the man. 



SONG OF MARION'S MEN. 
William Cullen Bryant. 

Our band is few, but true and tried, 

Our leader frank and bold ; 
The British soldier trembles 

When Marion's name is told. 
Our fortress is the good green wood, 

Our tent the cypress tree ; 
We know the forest round us, 

As seamen know the sea. 



SONG OF MARION S MEN. 

We know its walls of thorny vines, 

Its glades of reedy grass, 
Its safe and silent islands 

Within the dark morass. 

Woe to the English soldiery 

That little dread us near ! 
On them shall light at midnight 

A strange and sudden fear : 
When waking to their tents on fire 

They grasp their arms in vain, 
And they who stand to face us 

Are beat to earth again : 
And they who fly in terror deem 

A mighty host behind, 
And hear the tramp of thousands 

Upon the hollow wind. 

Then sweet the hour that brings release 

From danger and from toil. 
We talk the battle over, 

And share the battle spoil. 
The woodland rings with laugh and shout, 

As if a hunt were up, 
And woodland flowers are gathered 

To crown the soldier's cup. 
With merry song we mock the wind 

That in the pine-top grieves. 
And slumber long and sweetly 

On beds of oaken leaves. 

Well knows the fair and friendly moon 

The band that Marion leads — 
The glitter of their rifles, 

The scampering of their steeds. 
'Tis life our fiery barb to guide 

Across the moonlight plains ; 
'Tis life to feel the night wind 

That lifts their tossing manes 
A moment in the British camp — 

A moment, and away 
Back to the pathless forest, 

Before the peep of day. 



THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 53 

Grave men there are by broad Santee, 

Grave men with hoary hairs, 
Their hearts are all with Marion, 

For Marion are their prayers. 
And lovely ladies greet our band, 

With kindliest welcoming, 
With smiles like those of summer, 

And tears like those of spring. 
For them we wear these trusty arms, 

And lay them down no more 
Till we have driven the Briton, 

Forever, from our shore. 



THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow^ 

Under a spreading chestnut tree 

The village smithy stands ; 
The smith, a mighty man is he, 

With large and sinewy hands ; 
And the muscles of his brawny arms 

Are strong as iron bands. 

His hair is crisp, and black, and long, 

His face is like the tan ; 
His brow is wet with honest sweat, 

He earns whate'er he can, 
And looks the whole world in the face, 

For he owes not any man. 

Week in, week out, from morn till night, 
You can hear his bellows blow ; 

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge. 
With measured beat and slow, 

Like a sexton ringing the village bell, 
When the evening sun is low. 

And children coming home from school 

Look in at the open door ; 
They love to see the flaming forge, 

And hear the bellows roar, 
And catch the burning sparks that fly 

Like chaff from a threshing floor. 






54 FOURTH OF JULY ODE. 

He goes on Sunday to the church, 

And sits among his boys ; 
He hears the parson pray and preach, 

He hears his daughter's voice, 
Singing in the village choir, 

And it makes his heart rejoice. 

It sounds to him like her mother's voice, 

Singing in Paradise ! 
He needs must think of her once more, 

How in the grave she lies ; 
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 

A tear out of his eyes. 

Toiling, — rejoicing, — sorrowing, 
Onward through life he goes ; 

Each morning sees some task begin, 
Each evening sees it close ; 

Something attempted, something done, 
Has earned a night's repose. 

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend 
For the lesson thou hast taught ! 

Thus at the flaming forge of life 
Our fortunes must be wrought ; 

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
Each burning deed and thought ! 



FOURTH OF JULY ODE. 

James Russell Lowell. 

Our fathers fought for Liberty, 
They struggled -long and well, 
History of their deeds can tell — 
But did they leave us free ? 

Are we free from vanity, 
Free from pride, and free from self, 
Free from love of power and pelf, 
From everything that's beggarly ? 



sphinx. 55 

Are we free from stubborn will. 
From low hate and malice small, 
From opinion's tyrant thrall ? 
Are none of us our own slaves still ? 

Are we free to speak our thought, 
To be happy, and be poor, 
Free to enter Heaven's door, 
To live and labor as we ought ? 

Are we then made free at last 
From the fear of what men say, 
Free to reverence To-day, 
Free from the slavery of the Past ? 

Our fathers fought for liberty, 
They struggled long and well, 
History of their deeds can tell — 
But ourselves must set us free ! 



SPHINX. 
James Russell Lowell. 

Why mourn we for the golden prime 

When our young souls were kingly, strong, and true ? 
The soul is greater than all time, 

It changes not, but yet is ever new. 

But that the soul is noble, we 

Could never know what nobleness had been; 
Be what ye dream ! and earth shall see 

A greater greatness than she e'er hath seen. 

The flower pines not to be fair, 

It never asketh to be sweet and dear, 
But gives itself to sun and air, 

And so is fresh and full from year to year. 

Nothing in nature weeps its lot, 

Nothing, save man, abides in memory, 
Forgetful that the past is what 

Ourselves may choose the coming time to be. 



56 SPHINX. 

All things are circular ; the Past 

Was given us to make the Future great; 

And the void Future shall at last 

Be the strong rudder of an after fate. 

We sit beside the Sphinx of Life, 

We gaze into its void, unanswering eyes, 

And spend ourselves in idle strife 
To read the riddle of their mysteries. 

Arise ! be earnest and be strong ! 

The Sphinx's eyes shall suddenly grow clear, 
And speak as plain to thee ere long, 

As the dear maiden's who holds thee most dear. 

The meaning of all things in us — 

Yea, in the lives we give our souls — doth lie ; 
Make, then, their meaning glorious 

By such a life as need not fear to die ! 

There is no heart-beat in the day, 

Which bears a record of the smallest deed, 

But holds within its faith alway 

That which in doubt we vainly strive to read. 

One seed contains another seed, 

And that a third, and so for evermore ; 

And promise of as great a deed 

Lies folded in the deed that went before. 

So ask not fitting space or time, 

Yet could not dream of things which could not be ; 
Each day shall make the next sublime, 

And Time be swallowed in Eternity. 

God bless the Present ! it is all; 

It has been Future, and it shall be Past; 
Awake and live ! thy strength recall, 

And in one trinity unite them fast. 

Action and Life — lo ! here the key 

Of all on earth that seemeth dark and wrong ; 

Win this — and, with it, freely ye 

May enter that bright realm for which ye long. 



OVER THE RIVER. 57 

Then all these bitter questionings 

Shall with a full and blessed answer meet ; 

Past worlds, whereof the Poet sings, 

Shall be the earth beneath his snow-white feet. 



OVER THE RIVER. 
N. A. W. Priest. 

Over the river they beckon to me, 

Loved ones who crossed to the other side ; 
The gleam of their snowy robes I see, 

But their voices are drowned by the rushing tide. 
There's one with ringlets of sunny gold, 

And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue ; 
He crossed in the twilight gray and cold, 

And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. 
We saw not the angels that met him there — 

The gates of the city we could not see ; 
Over the river, over the river, 

My brother stands waiting to welcome me. 

Over the river the boatman pale 

Carried another, the household pet ; 
Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale — 

Darling Minnie ! I see her yet ; 
She closed on her bosom her dimpled hands, 

And fearlessly entered the phantom bark ; 
We watched it glide from the silver sands, 

And all our sunshine grew strangely dark. 
We know she is safe on the further side, 

Where all the ransomed and angels be ; 
Over the river, the mystic river, 

My childhood's idol is waiting for me. 

For none return from those quiet shores, 

Who cross with the boatman cold and pale ; 
We hear the dip of the golden oars, 

And catch a glimpse of the snowy sail ; 
And lo ! they have past from our yearning hearts, 

They cross the stream and are gone for aye. 
We may not sunder the veil apart 

That hides from our vision the gates of day ; 



58 the Arab's farewell to his steed. 

We only know that their barks no more 
Sail with us o'er life's stormy sea ; 

Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore, 
They watch and beckon, and wait for me. 

And I sit and think when the sunset's gold 

Is flashing on river, and hill, and shore, 
I shall one day stand by the waters cold 

And list to the sound of the boatman's oar. 
I shall watch for the gleam of the flapping sail ; 

I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand ; 
I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale 

To the better shore of the spirit-land. 
I shall know the loved who have gone before, 

And joyfully sweet will the meeting be, 
When over the river, the peaceful river, 

The angel of death shall carry me 



THE ARAB'S FAREWELL TO HIS STEED. 

Mrs. Norton. 

My beautiful, my beautiful, that standest meekly by, 

With thy proudly arched and glossy neck, and dark and fiery 

eye ! 
Fret not to roam the desert now with all thy winged speed, 
I may not mount on thee again — thou'rt sold, my Arab steed! 

Fret not with that impatient hoof — snuff not the breezy 

wind ; 
The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind! 
The stranger hath thy bridle-rein, thy master hath his gold — 
Fleet-limbed and beautiful, farewell — thou'rt sold, my steed, 

thou'rt sold ! 

Farewell ! those free, untired limbs full many a mile must 
roam, 

To reach the chill and wintry clime that clouds the stranger's 
home ; 

Some other hand, less kind, must now thy corn and bed pre- 
pare ; 

That silky mane I braided once must be another's care. 



THE ARAB S FAREWELL TO HIS STEED. 59 

The morning sun shall dawn again — but nevermore with 

thee 
Shall I gallop o'er the desert paths where we were wont to 

be ; 
Evening shall darken on the earth, and o'er the sandy plain 
Some other steed with slower pace shall bear me home again. 

Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing bright — 
Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light ; 
And when I raise my dreaming arms to check or cheer thy 

speed, 
Then must I startling wake to feel thou'rt sold, my Arab 

steed ! 

Ah, rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide, 
Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting 

side, 
And the rich blood that's in thee swells in thy indignant 

pain, 
Till careless eyes that on thee gaze may count each starting 

vein. 

Will they ill-use thee ? if I thought — but no, it cannot be ; 
Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed ; so gentle, yet so free : 
And yet if haply when thou'rt gone this lonely heart should 

yearn, 
Can the hand that casts thee from it now command thee to 

return ? 

"Return!" alas, my Arab steed! what will thy master do, 
When thou that wast his all of joy hast vanished from his 

view ? 
When the dim distance greets mine eyes, and through the 

gathering tears 
Thy bright form for a moment like the false mirage appears ? 

Slow and unmounted will I roam with wearied foot alone, 
Where, with fleet step and joyous bound, thou oft hast borne 

me on, 
And sitting down by the green well, I'll pause, and sadly 

think, 
- 'Twas here he bowed his glossy neck when last I saw him 

drink." 



60 MAKING LOVE IN THE CHOIR. 

When last I saw thee drink ? — Away ! the fevered dream is 

o'er ! 
I could not live a day and know that we should meet no 

more ; 
They tempted me, my beautiful — for hunger's power is 

strong — 
They tempted me, my beautiful — but I have loved too long. 

Who said that I had given thee up? Who said that thou 

wert sold ? 
'Tis false, 'tis false, my Arab steed ! I fling them back their 

gold ! 
Thus — thus I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant 

plains ! 
Away ! who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains. 



MAKING LOVE IN THE CHOIR. 
From "Puck." 

She sat on the steps of the organ loft 

Just after the second hymn ; 
And through nave and choir to the cool gray spire 

The sound rose faint and dim, 
As they settled themselves in the church below 

For the sermon that followed next, 
And I seated myself at the alto's side 

As the parson took his text. 

I marked the tender flush of her cheek, 

And the gleam of her golden hair, 
The snowy kerchief 'round her neck, 

And her throat all white and bare ; 
A throat so white that indeed it might 

An anchorite entice ; 
And I faintly heard the parson's word 

As he preached of Paradise. 

My arm stole gently around her waist 

Until our fingers met ; 
And a flitting blush made the tender flush 

Q£ her cheek grew deeper yet. 



THE FIRST TE DEUM. 6 1 

Snowy and fair the hand beneath, 

And brown the palm above, 
And the brown closed softly over the white 

As the parson spoke of love. 

Ah, who is wise, when deep blue eyes 

Meet his and look coyly down ! 
Who would but drink, nor care to think 

Of envy's jealous frown ? 
'Twas but to bend till I felt her breath 

Grow warm on my cheek, and then 
My lips just softly touched her own 

As the parson said, Amen. 



THE FIRST TE DEUM. 
Margaret J. Preston. 
'Twas Easter night in Milan, and before 
The altar in the great Basilica 
St. Ambrose stood. At the baptismal font 
Kneeled a young neophyte, his brow still wet 
With the symbolic water, and near by — 
The holy Monica — her raised eyes strained 
As with unearthly ecstasy she breathed 
Her Nunc dimittis Domine ! The words 
Of comfort spoken, " Be sure the child for whom 
Thy mother-heart hath poured so many prayers, 
Shall not be lost," had full accomplishment, 
And her tired heart found peace. 

St. Ambrose raised 
His hands to heaven and on his face there shone 
Such light as glorified the prophet's when 
An angel from the altar bare a coal 
And touched his lips. With solemn step and slow 
He turned to meet Augustine as he rose 
Up from the pavement and thereon he brake 
Forth in ascriptive chant : 

" We praise, Thee, God, 
And we acknowledge Thee to be the Lord ! " 
Augustine on the instant caught the tone 
Of answering exultation ; 

" All the earth 
Doth worship Thee, the Father everlasting ! " 



62 the Indian's claim. 

And from the altar rail came back again 
The antiphony : 

" To thee all angels cry- 
Aloud, the heavens and all the powers therein." 
And from the font 

" To Thee the cherubim 
And seraphim continually do cry 
1 Oh, Holy, Holy, Holy, Thou Lord God 
Of Sabaoth ! ' Heaven and earth are full of all 
The glory of Thy majesty ! " 

And then 
With upward gaze, as if he looked upon 
The infinite multitude about the throne, 
St. Ambrose uttered with triumphant voice, 

" The glorious company of the Apostles " — 
" Praise Thee ! " burst reverent from Augustine's lips. 
" The goodly fellowship of all the prophets " — 
" Praise Thee ! " " The noble army of the martyrs " — 
" Praise Thee ! " 

Thus back and forth responsive rolled 
The grand antiphonal, until the crowd 
That kneeled throughout the vast Basilica 
Rose to their feet, and toward the altar pressed 
With one strong impulse drawn. The breath of God 
Had, to their thought, inspired these mortal tongues 
To which they listened, as beneath a spell 
Vatic and wonderful. 

And when the last 
Response was reached, and the rapt speakers stood 
With eyelids closed, — as those who had seen God 
And could not brook at once a mortal face, — 
Awestruck the people bowed their heads and wept ; 
Then uttered with acclaim one long Amen.* 



THE INDIAN'S CLAIM. 
Edward Everett. 
Think of the country for which the Indians fought ! 
Who can blame them ? As Philip looked down from his 
seat on Mount Hope, that glorious eminence, that 
Throne of royal state, which far 
Outshone the wealth of Ormus or of Ind. 
Or where the gorgeous East, with richest hand, 
Showers on her kings barbaric pomp and gold. 



the Indian's claim. 63 

as he looked down and beheld the lovely scene which spread 
beneath at a summer sunset, — the distant hill-tops blazing 
with gold, the slanting beams streaming along the waters, 
the broad plains, the island groups, the majestic forest, — 
could he be blamed if his heart burned within him as he 
beheld it all passing, by no tardy process, from beneath his 
control into the hands of the strangers ? As the river chief- 
tains — -the lords of the waterfalls and the mountains — 
ranged this lovely valley, can it be wondered at, if they 
beheld with bitterness the forest disappearing beneath the 
settler's ax — the fishing-place disturbed by his saw-mills ? 
Can we not fancy the feelings with which some strong- 
minded savage, in company with a friendly settler, contem- 
plating the progress already made by the white man, and 
marking the gigantic strides with which he was advancing 
into the wilderness, would fold his arms and say, " White 
man, there is eternal war between me and thee ! I quit not 
the land of my fathers, but with my life. In those woods, 
where I bent my youthful bow, I will still hunt the deer : 
over yonder waters I will still glide unrestrained in my bark 
canoe. By those dashing waterfalls I will still lay up my 
winter's store of food : on these fertile meadows I will still 
plant my corn. Stranger, the land is mine. I understand 
not these paper rights. I gave not my consent, when, as 
thou sayest, these broad regions were purchased for a few 
bawbles of my fathers. They could sell what was theirs : 
they could sell no more. How could my father sell that 
which the Great Spirit sent me into the world to live upon ? 
They knew not what they did. The stranger came, a timid 
suppliant, and asked to lie down on the red man's bear- 
skin, and warm himself at the red man's fire, and have a 
little piece of land to raise corn for his women and children : 
and now he is become strong and mighty and bold, and 
spreads out his parchment over the whole, and says, ' It is 
mine.' Stranger, there is not room for us both. The Great 
Spirit has not made us to live together. There is poison in 
the white man's cup : the white man's dog barks at the red 
man's heels. If I should leave the land of my fathers, 
whither shall I fly ? Shall I go to the south, and dwell 
among the graves of the Pequots ? Shall I wander to the 
west, — the fierce Mohawk — the man-eater — is my foe. 
Shall I fly to the east, — the great water is before me. No, 
stranger : here I have lived and here will I die ; and if here 



64 custer's last charge. 

thou abidest, there is eternal war between me and thee. 
Thou hast taught me thy arts of destruction : for that alone 
I thank thee. And now take heed to thy steps : the red man 
is thy foe. When thou goest forth by day, my bullet shall 
whistle by thee : when thou liest down at night, my knife is 
at thy throat. The noonday sun shall not discover thy 
enemy, and the darkness of midnight shall not protect thy 
rest. Thou shalt plant in terror, and I will reap in blood ; 
thou shalt sow the earth with corn, and I will strew it with 
ashes ; thou shalt go forth with the sickle, and I will follow 
after with the scalping-knife ; thou shalt build, and I will 
burn, — till the white man or the Indian shall cease from the 
land. Go thy way for this time in safety; but remember, 
stranger, there is eternal war between me and thee ! " 



CUSTER'S LAST CHARGE. 
Frederick Whittaker- 

"Dead ! Is it possible ? He, the bold rider, 

Custer, our hero, the first in the fight, 
Charming the bullets of yore to fly wider, 

Shunning our battle-king's ringlets of light ! 
Dead ! our young chieftain, and dead all forsaken ! 

No one to tell us the way of his fall ! 
Slain in the desert, and never to waken, 

Never, not even to victory's call ! " 

Comrades, he's gone ; but ye need not be grieving. 

No, may my death be like his when I die ! 
No regrets wasted on words I am leaving, 

Falling with brave men and face to the sky. 
Death's but a journey, the greatest must take it : 

Fame is eternal, and better than all. 
Gold though the bowl be, 'tis fate that must break it, 

Glory can hallow the fragments that fall. 

Proud for his fame that last day that he met them ! 

All the night long he had been on their track, 
Scorning the traps and the men that had set them, 

Wild for a charge that should never give back. 
There on the hill-top he halted and saw them, 

Lodges all loosened, and ready to fly. 



65 custer's last charge. 

Hurrying scouts, with the tidings to awe them. 
Told of his coming before he was nigh. 

All the wide valley was full of their forces, 

Gathered to cover the lodges' retreat, 
Warriors running in haste to their horses, 

Thousands of enemies close to his feet ! 
Down in the valleys the ages had hollowed, 

There lay the Sitting Bull's camp for a prey ! 
Numbers ! What recked he ? What recked those who 
followed ? 

Men who had fought ten to one ere that day ? 

Out swept the squadrons, the fated three hundred, 

Into the battle-line steady and full ; 
Then down the hill-side exultingly thundered, 

Into the hordes of the Old Sitting Bull ! 
Wild Ogalallah, Arapahoe, Cheyenne, 

Wild Horse's braves, and the rest of their crew, 
Shrank from their charge like a herd from a lion. 

Then closed around the great hell of wild Sioux. 

Right to their center he charged, and then facing- 
Hark to those yells ! and around them, oh, see ! 

Over the hill-tops the devils come racing, 
Coming as fast as the waves of the sea ! 

Red was the circle of fire about them : 
No hope of victory, no ray of light, 

Shot through that terrible black cloud without them, 
Brooding in death over Custer's last fight. 

Then did he blench ? Did he die like a craven, 

Begging those torturing fiends for his life? 
Was there a soldier who carried the Seven 

Flinched like a coward or fled from the strife ? 
No, by the blood of our Custer, no quailing ! 

There in the midst of the devils they close, 
Hemmed in by thousands, but ever assailing, 

Fighting like tigers all bayed amid foes ! 

Thicker and thicker the bullets came singing, 

Down go the horses and riders and all ; 
Swiftly the warriors round them were ringing, 

Circling like buzzards awaiting their fall. 



66 DE SOTO. 

See the wild steeds of the mountain and prairie, 
Savage eyes gleaming from forests of mane ; 

Quivering lances with pennons so airy ; 
War-painted warriors charging amain. 

Backward again and again they were driven, 
Shrinking to close with the lost little band. 

Never a cap that had worn the bright Seven 
Bow'd till its wearer was dead on the strand. 

Closer and closer the death-circle growing, 
Even the leader's voice, clarion clear, 

Rang out his words of encouragement glowing, 

"We can but die once, boys, but sell your lives dear ! 

Dearly they sold them, like Berserkers raging, 

Facing the death that encircled them round ; 
Death's bitter pangs by their vengeance assuaging, 

Marking their tracks by their dead on the ground. 
Comrades, our children shall yet tell their story, 

Custer's last charge on the old Sitting Bull ; 
And ages shall swear that the cup of his glory 

Needed but that death to render it full. 



DE SOTO. 
Anon. 

There, in that lonely, hut, lay the proudest spirit, the 
bravest heart, the mightiest intellect, the favorite comrade of 
Pizarro, the joint conqueror of Peru ! There lay Hernan de 
Soto ; his fiery energies, even more than the hot fever, wear- 
ing away his mortal frame ; his massive brow clogged with 
the black sweat of death ; his eye, that had flashed the more 
brilliantly the deadlier was the peril, dim and filmy ; his 
heart sick ; his hopes of conquest, fame, dominion, gone like 
the leaves of autumn ! There he lay, miserably perishing by 
inches, the discoverer of a world. 

Beside his pallet-bed was assembled a group of men, the 
least renowned of whom might well have led a royal army to 
do battle for a crown; but their frames were gaunt and 
emaciated; their cheeks furrowed with the lines of care and 
agony, both of the mind and body; their eyes wet with the 
tears of bitterness. The dark-cowled priests had ministered 



DE SOTO. 67 

the last rites of religion to the dying warrior, and now 
watched' in breathless silence the parting of his spirit ; an 
Indian girl, of rare symmetry, and loveliness that would have 
been deemed exquisite in the brightest halls of Old Castile, 
leaned over his pillow, wiping the cold dew from the con- 
queror's brow with her long jetty locks, and fanning off the 
myriads of insects that thronged the tainted air ! There was 
not a sound in the crowded chamber, save the heavy, soblike 
breathings of the dying man, and the occasional winnings of 
a tall hound, which sat erect, gazing with almost human 
intelligence upon the pallid features of his lord. 

Suddenly a light draught of air was perceptible, the silken 
veil fluttered inward, and a heavy rustling sound was audible 
from without, as the huge folds of the banner swayed in the 
rising breeze. A sensible coolness pervaded the heated 
chamber and reached the languid brow of De Soto, who 
had lain for the last half hour in seeming lethargy. Wearily, 
and with a painful expression, he raised himself upon his 
elbow. 

" Moscoso," he said, " Moscoso, art thou near me ? My 
eyes wax dim, and it will soon be over. Art thou there, for 
I would speak with thee ? " 

" Noble De Soto, I am beside thee," he replied. " Say on ; 
I hear and mark thee ! " 

" Give me thy hand ! " Then, as he received it, he raised 
it slowly on high, and continued in clear and unfaltering 
tones, though evidently with an effort, " True friend and 
follower, by this right hand, that has so often fought beside 
my own, — by this right hand, I do adjure thee to observe 
and to obey these my last mandates ! " 

" Shall I swear it ? " cried the stern warrior whom he 
addressed, in a tone and voice rendered thick and husky by 
the violence of his excitement ; "shall I swear it ?" 

" Swear not, Moscoso ! leave oaths to paltry burghers and 
to cringing vassals, but pledge me the unblemished honor of 
a Castilian noble — so shall I die in peace ! " 

"By the unblemished hoaor of a Castilian noble, as I am 
a born hidalgo and a belted knight, I promise thee, in spirit 
and in truth, in deed and word and thought, to do thy 
bidding ! " 

" Then, by this token," and he drew a massive ring from 
his own wasted hand and placed it on the finger of Moscoso, 
"then, by this token, do I name thee my successor, thee, 



68 DE SOTO. 

the leader of the host, and captain-general of Spain ! Sound 
trumpets ; heralds make proclamation ! " A moment or two 
elapsed, and the wild flourish of the trumpets was heard 
without, and the sonorous voice of the heralds making proc- 
lamation ; they ceased, but there was no shout of triumph or 
applause. 

" Ha ! " cried the dying chief, " this must not be ; 'tis omi- 
nous and evil ! Go forth, thou, Vasco, and bid them sound 
again, and let my people shout for this their loyal leader." 

It was done, and a gleam of triumphant satisfaction shot 
across his hollow features. He spoke again, but it was with 
a feebler voice : 

" I am going," he said ; " I am going whence there is no 
return ! Now, mark me, by your plighted word I do com- 
mand you, battle no farther, strive with the fates no farther, 
for the fa Us are adverse ! Conquer not thou this region, for 
I have conquered it, and it is mine ! Mine, mine — though 
dying ! Mine it shall be, though dead ! March to the coast 
as best ye may ; build ye such vessels as may bear ye from 
the main, and save this remnant of my people ! Wilt thou 
do this, noble Moscoso ? " 

" By all my hopes, I will ! " 

"Me, then, me shall ye bury thus ! Not with lamentations, 
not with womanish tears, not with vile sorrow, but with the 
rejoicing anthem, with the blare of the trumpet, and the 
stormy music of the drum ! Ye shall sheath me in my mail, 
with my helmet on my head and my spur on my heel ; with 
my sword in my hand shall ye bury me, and with a banner 
of Castile for my shroud ! In the depths of the river — of 
my river — shall ye bury me, with lighted torch and volleyed 
musketry at the mid-hour of night ! For am I not a con- 
queror, a conqueror of a world, a conqueror with none to 
brave my arm or to gainsay my bidding ? Where, where is 
the man, savage or civilized, Christian or heathen, Indian or 
Spaniard, who hath defied Hernan de Soto, and not perished 
from the earth ? Death is upon me — death from the Lord 
of earth and heaven ! To him I do submit me, but to mor- 
tal never ! " 

****** 

The sun had even now sunk below the horizon, and, ere 
the preparations for his funeral had been completed, it was 
already midnight. Five hundred torches of the resinous 
pine-tree flashed with their crimson reflections on the turbid 



PASSING AWAY. 69 

waters, as the barks glided over its surface, bearing the 
warrior to his last home. 

A train of cowled priests, with pix and crucifix and 
steaming censer, floated in the van, making the vaulted 
woods to echo the high notes of the Te Deum, chanted in 
lieu of the mournful Miserere over the mortal part of that 
ill-fated warrior. 

The canoe came onward in which the corpse was placed, 
seated erect, as he had ordered it, with the good sword in 
the dead hand, the polished helmet glancing above the 
sunken features, and the gay banner of Castile floating like 
a mantle from the shoulders, the pealing notes of the trum- 
pet, and the roll of the battle-drum, and the Spanish war- 
cry, " St. Jago for De Soto and for Spain." 

There was a pause, a deep, deep pause — a sullen splash, 
and every torch was instantly extinguished. " The discov- 
erer of the Mississippi slept beneath its waters. He had 
crossed a large part of the continent in search of gold, and 
found nothing so remarkable as his burial-place." 



PASSING AWAY. 
John Pierpont. 

Was it the chime of a tiny bell, 

That came so sweet to my dreaming ear, 
Like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell, 

That he winds on the beach, so mellow and clear, 
When the winds and the waves lie together asleep, 
And the moon and the fairy are watching the deep, 
She dispensing her silvery light, 
And he his notes as silvery quite, 
While the boatman listens and ships his oar, 
To catch the music that comes from the shore ? 
Hark ! the notes on my ear that play, 
Are set to words : as they float, they say, 
" Passing away ! passing away ! " 

But no ; it was not a fairy's shell, 

Blown on the beach so mellow and clear ; 

Nor was it the tongue of a silver bell 
Striking the hour, that filled my ear 

As I lay in my dream ; yet was it a chime 

That told of the flow of the stream of time : 



70 PASSING AWAY. 

For a beautiful clock from the ceiling hung, 
And a plump little girl, for a pendulum, swung 
(As you've sometimes seen, in a little ring, 
That hangs in his cage, a canary-bird swing) ; 

And she held to her bosom a budding bouquet 
And, as she enjoyed it, she seemed to say, 
" Passing away ! passing away ! " 

Oh, how bright were the wheels that told 

Of the lapse of time as they moved round slow ! 
And the hands, as they swept o'er the dial of gold 

Seemed to point to the girl below. 
And lo ! she had changed ; in a few short hours 
Her bouquet had become a garland of flowers, 
That she held in her outstretched hands, and flung 
This way and that, as she, dancing, swung, 
In the fulness of grace and womanly pride, 
That told me she soon was to be a bride ; 

Yet then, when expecting her happiest day, 
In the same sweet voice I heard her say, 
" Passing away ! passing away ! " 

When I gazed on that fair one's cheek, a shade 

Of thought, or care, stole softly over, 
Like that by a cloud on a summer's day made, 

Looking down a field of blossoming clover. 
The rose yet lay on her cheek, but its flush 
Had something lost of its brilliant blush ; 
And the light in her eye, and the light on the wheels, 

That marched so calmly round above her, 
Was a little dimmed — as when Evening steals 

Upon Noon's hot face, — yet one couldn't but love her, 
For she looked like a mother whose first babe lay 
Rocked on her breast, as she swung all day ; 
And she seemed in the same silver tone to say, 
" Passing away ! passing away ! " 

While yet I looked, what a change there came ! 

Her eye was quenched, and her cheek was wan ; 
Stooping and staffed was her withered frame, 

Yet just as busily swung she on ; 
The garland beneath her had fallen to dust ; 
The wheels above her were eaten with rust ; 



LETTING THE OLD CAT DIE. 71 

The hands that over, the dial swept 

Grew crooked and tarnished, but on they kept ; 

And still there came that silver tone 

From the shriveled lips of the toothless crone ; 

Let me never forget to my dying day, 

The tone or the burden of that lay — 

" Passing away ! passing away ! " 



LETTING THE OLD CAT DIE. 
Anon. 

Not long ago I wandered near 

A playground in the wood, 
And there heard words from a youngster's lips, 

That I never quite understood. 

" Now let the old cat die," he laughed ; 

I saw him give a push, 
Then gayly scamper away as he spied 

My face peep over the bush. 

But what he pushed, or where he went, 

I could not well make out, 
On account of the thicket of bending boughs 

That bordered the place about. 

" The little villain had stoned a cat, 

Or hung it upon a limb, 
And left it to die all alone," I said, 

" But I'll play the mischief with him." 

I forced my way between the boughs, 

The poor old cat to seek, 
And what did I find but a swinging child, 

With her bright hair brushing her cheek. 

Her bright hair floated to and fro, 

Her little red dress flashed by, 
But the loveliest thing of all, I thought, 

Was the gleam of her laughing eye. 



72 GENERAL WOLFE TO HIS ARMY. 

Swinging and swaying back and forth, 

With the rose-light in her face, 
She seemed like a bird and a flower in one, 

And the forest her native place. 

" Steady ! I'll send you up, my child," 
But she stopped me with a cry : 

" Go 'way ! go 'way ! Don't touch me please— 
I'm letting the old cat die ! " 

" You letting him die ? " I cried aghast — 
" Why, where's the cat, my dear ? " 

And lo ! the laughter that filled the woods 
Was a thing for the birds to hear. 

" Why, don't you know," said the little maid, 

The flitting, beautiful elf, 
" That we call it ' letting the old cat die.' 

When the swing stops all of itself ? " 

Then swinging and swinging, and looking back, 
With the merriest look in her eye,' 

She bade me "Good-day," and I left her alone, 
A-letting the old cat die. 



GENERAL WOLFE TO HIS ARMY. 
Aikin. 

I congratulate you, my brave countrymen and fellow- 
soldiers, on the spirit and success with which you have exe- 
cuted this important part of our enterprise. The formida- 
ble heights of Abraham are now surmounted ; and the city 
of Quebec, the object of all our toils, now stands in view 
before us. A perfidious enemy, who have dared to exasper- 
ate you by their cruelties, but not to oppose you on equal 
ground, are now constrained to face you on the open plain, 
without ramparts or intrenchments to shelter them. 

You know too well the forces which compose their army 
to dread their superior numbers. A few regular troops from 
old France, weakened by hunger and sickness, who, when 
fresh, were unable to withstand British soldiers, are their 
general's chief dependence. Those numerous companies of 



THE MORAL WARFARE. 73 

Canadians, insolent, mutinous, unsteady, and ill-disciplined, 
have exercised his utmost skill to keep them together to this 
time ; and as soon as their irregular ardor is dampened by 
our firm fire, they will instantly turn their backs and give 
you no further trouble but in the pursuit. As for those 
savage tribes of Indians, whose horrid yells in the forest 
have struck many a bold heart with affright, terrible as they 
are with the tomahawk and scalping-knife to a flying and 
prostrate foe, you have experienced how little their ferocity 
is to be dreaded by resolute men upon fair and open ground : 
you will now only consider them as the just objects of a 
severe revenge for the unhappy fate of many slaughtered 
countrymen. 

This day puts it into your power to terminate the fatigues 
of a siege, which has so long employed your courage and 
patience. Possessed with a full confidence of the certain 
success which British valor must gain over such enemies, I 
have led you up to these steep and dangerous rocks, only 
solicitous to show you the foe within your reach. The im- 
possibility of a retreat makes no difference in the situation 
of men resolved to conquer or die : and believe me, my 
friends, if your conquest could be bought with the blood of 
your general, he would most cheerfully resign a life which 
he has long devoted to his country. 



THE MORAL WARFARE. 

J. G. Whittier. 

When Freedom, on her natal day, 

Within her war-rocked cradle lay, 

An iron race around her stood, 

Baptized her infant brow in blood, 

And, through the storm which round her swept, 

Their constant ward and watching kept. 

Then, where quiet herds repose, 
The roar of baleful battle rose, 
And brethren of a common tongue 
To mortal strife as tigers sprung, 
And every gift on Freedom's shrine 
Was man for beast, and blood for wine ! 



74 ADDRESS TO SURVIVING VETERANS. 

Our fathers to their graves have gone ; 
Their strife is past — their triumph won ; 
But sterner trials wait the race 
Which rises in their honor'd place — 
A moral warfare with the crime 
And folly of an evil time. 

So let it be. In God's own might 

We gird us for the coming fight, 

And, strong in Him whose cause is ours 

In conflict with unholy powers, 

We grasp the weapons he has given — 

The Light, and Truth, and Love of Heaven ! 



ADDRESS TO THE SURVIVING VETERANS OF 

THE REVOLUTION. 

Daniel Webster. 

Venerable men ! * you have come down to us from a for- 
mer generation. Heaven has bounteously lengthened out 
your lives, that you might behold this joyous day. You are 
now where you stood fifty years ago, this very hour, with 
your brothers and your neighbors, shoulder to shoulder, in 
the strife for your country. Behold, how altered ! The same 
heavens are indeed over your heads ; the same ocean rolls 
at your feet ; but all else how changed ! You hear now no 
roar of hostile cannon, you see no mixed volumes of smoke 
and flame rising from burning Charlestown. The ground 
strewed with the dead and the dying ; the impetuous charge ; 
the steady and successful repulse ; the loud call to repeated 
assault; the summoning of all that is manly to repeated resist- 
ance ; a thousand bosoms freely and fearlessly bared in an 
instant to whatever of terror there may be in war and 
death ; all these you have witnessed, but you witness them 
no more. All is peace. The heights of yonder metropolis, 
its towers and roofs, which you then saw filled with wives, 
and children, and countrymen, in distress and terror, and 
looking with unutterable emotions for the issue of the com- 
bat, have presented you to-day with the sight of its whole 
happy population, come out to welcome and greet you with 

* The survivors of Bunker Hill. 



THE MURDERED TRAVELER. 75 

a universal jubilee. Yonder proud ships, by a felicity of 
position appropriately lying at the foot of this mount, and 
seeming fondly to cling around it, are not means of annoy- 
ance to you, but your country's own means of distinction 
and defense. All is peace ; and God has granted you this 
sight of your country's happiness, ere you slumber in the 
grave forever. He has allowed you to behold and to partake 
the reward of your patriotic toils ; and he has allowed us, 
your sons and countrymen, to meet you here, and, in the name 
of the present generation, in the name of your country, in the 
name of liberty, to thank you. 

Veterans ! * you are the remnant of many a well-fought 
field. You bring with you marks of honor from Trenton 
and Monmouth, from Yorktown, Camden, Bennington, and 
Saratoga. Veterans of half a century ! when, in your youth- 
ful days, you put every thing at hazard in your country's 
cause, good as that cause was, and sanguine as youth is, still 
your fondest hopes did not stretch onward to an hour like 
this ! At a period to which you could not reasonably have 
expected to arrive ; at a moment of national prosperity, such 
as you could never have foreseen ; you are now met here to 
enjoy the fellowship of old soldiers, and to receive the over- 
flowings of a universal gratitude. 

But your agitated countenances and your heaving breasts 
inform me that even this is not an unmixed joy. I perceive 
that a tumult of contending feelings rushes upon you. The 
images of the dead, as well as the persons of the living, 
throng to your embraces. The scene overwhelms you, and 
I turn from it. May the Father of all mercies smile upon 
your declining years and bless them ! 



THE MURDERED TRAVELER. 
W. C. Bryant. 

When spring, to woods and wastes around, 

Brought bloom and joy again, 
The murdered traveler's bones were found, 

Far down a narrow glen. 

* The survivors of the Revolutionary army. 



^6 THE MURDERED TRAVELER. 

The fragrant birch above him hung 

Her tassels in the sky ; 
And many a vernal blossom sprung, 

And nodded careless by. 

The red bird warbled as he wrought 

His hanging nest o'erhead ; 
And fearless, near the fatal spot, 

Her young the partridge led. 

But there was weeping far away; 

And gentle eyes, for him, 
With watching many an anxious day, 

Grew sorrowful and dim. 

They little knew, who loved him so, 

The fearful death he met, 
When shouting o'er the desert snow, 

Unarmed, and hard beset ; 

Nor how, when round the frosty pole 

The northern dawn was red, 
The mountain wolf and wild cat stoje 

To banquet on the dead ; 

Nor how, when strangers found his bones, 

They dressed the hasty bier, 
And marked his grave with nameless stones, 

Unmoistened by a tear. 

But long they looked, and feared, and wept, 

Within his distant home ; 
And dreamed, and started as they slept, 

For joy that he was come. 

So long they looked — but never spied 

His welcome step again, 
Nor knew the fearful death he died 

Far down that narrow glen. 



THE CLOSING YEAR. 77 

THE CLOSING YEAR. 

George D. Prentice. 

'Tis midnight's holy hour — and silence now 

Is brooding, like a gentle spirit o'er 

The still and pulseless world. Hark ! on the winds 

The bell's deepest tones are swelling, 'Tis the knell 

Of the departed year. 

No funeral train 
Is sweeping past ; yet on the stream and wood, 
With melancholy light, the moonbeams rest, 
Like a pale, spotless shroud ; the air is stirred 
As by a mourner's sigh ; and on yon cloud, 
That floats so still and placidly through heaven, 
The spirits of the seasons seem to stand — 
Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn form, 
And Winter with his aged locks — and breathe 
In mournful cadences, that come abroad 
Like the far wind-harp's wild and touching wail, 
A melancholy dirge o'er the dead year, 
Gone from the earth forever. 

'Tis a time 
For memory and for tears. Within the deep, 
Still chambers of the heart a specter dim, 
Whose tones are like the wizard voice of Time 
Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold 
And solemn finger to the beautiful 
And holy visions that have passed away, 
And left no shadow of their loveliness 
On the dead waste of life. That specter lifts 
The coffin-lid of hope and joy and love, 
And, bending mournfully above the pale, 
Sweet forms that slumber there, scatters dead flowers 
O'er what has passed to nothingness. 

The year 
Has gone and with it, many a glorious throng 
Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow, 
Its shadow in each heart. In its swift course 
It waved its scepter o'er the beautiful, 
And they are not. It laid its pallid hand 
Upon the strong man, and the haughty form 
Is fallen and the flashing eye is dim, 



8 THE CLOSING YEAR. 

It trod the hall of revelry, where thronged 
The bright and joyous, and the tearful wail 
Of stricken ones is heard where erst the song 
And reckless shout resounded. It passed o'er 
The battle-plain where sword and spear and shield 
Flashed in the light of mid-day — and the strength 
Of serried hosts is shivered, and the grass, 
Green from the soil of carnage, waves above 
The crushed and moldering skeleton. It came 
And faded like a wreath of mist at eve ; 
Yet, ere it melted in the viewless air, 
It heralded its millions to their home 
In the dim land of dreams. 

Remorseless Time ! 
Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe ! what power 
Can stay him in his silent course, or melt 
His iron heart to pity ? On, still on 
He presses, and forever. The proud bird, 
The condor of the Andes, that can soar 
Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave 
The fury of the northern hurricane, 
And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home, 
Furls his broad wings at nightfall, and sinks down 
To rest upon his mountain-crag. But Time 
Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness. 
And night's deep darkness has no chain to bind 
His rushing pinion. Revolutions sweep 
O'er earth, like troubled visions o'er the breast 
Of dreaming sorrow; cities rise and sink 
Like bubbles on the water ; fiery isles 
Spring blazing from the ocean, and go back 
To their mysterious caverns ; mountains rear 
To heaven their bald and blackened cliffs, and bow 
Their tall heads to the plain ; new empires rise, 
Gathering the strength of hoary centuries, 
And rush down like the Alpine avalanche. 
Startling the nations ; and the very stars, 
Yon bright and burning blazonry of God, 
Glitter awhile in their eternal depths, 
And, like the Pleiad, loveliest of their train, 
Shoot from their glorious spheres and pass away, 
To darkle in the trackless void ; yet Time, 



THE GLADIATOR. 79 

Time, the tomb-builder, holds his fierce career, 
Dark, stern, all-pitiless, and pauses not 
Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his path, 
To sit and muse, like other conquerors, 
Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought. 



THE GLADIATOR. 

Stillness reigned in the vast amphitheater, and from the 
countless thousands that thronged the spacious inclosure 
not a breath was heard. Every tongue was mute with 
suspense, and every eye strained with anxiety toward the 
gloomy portal where the gladiator was momentarily expected 
to enter. At length the trumpet sounded, and they led him 
forth into the broad arena. There was no mark of fear 
upon his manly countenance, as with majestic step and fear- 
less eye he entered. He stood there, like another Apollo, 
firm and unbending as the rigid oak. His fine proportioned 
form was matchless, and his turgid muscles spoke his giant 
strength. 

" I am here," he cried, as his proud lip curled in scorn, 
11 to glut the savage eyes of Rome's proud populace. Aye, 
like a dog you throw me to the beast ; and what is my of- 
fense ? Why, forsooth, I am a Christian ! But know, ye 
cannot fright my soul, for it is based upon a foundation 
stronger than adamantine rock. Know ye, whose hearts are 
harder than the flinty stone, my heart quakes not with fear; 
and here I aver, I would not change conditions with the 
blood-stained Nero, crowned though he be, not s for the 
wealth of Rome. Blow ye your trumpet — I am ready." 

The trumpet sounded, and a long, low growl was heard 
to proceed from the cage of a half famished Numidian lion, 
situated at the farthest end of the arena. The growl deep- 
ened into a roar of tremendous volume, which shook the 
enormous edifice to its very center. At that moment the 
door was thrown open, and the huge monster of the forest 
sprang from his den, with one mighty bound, to the opposite 
side of the arena. His eyes blazed with the brilliancy of 
fire, as he slowly drew his length along the sand, and pre- 
pared to make a spring upon his formidable antagonist. 
The gladiator's eye quailed not ; his lips paled not ; but he 
stood immovable as a statue, waiting the approach of his 
wary foe. 



80 THE GLADIATOR. 

At length the lion crouched itself jnto an attitude for 
springing, and with the quickness of lightning leaped full at 
the throat of the gladiator. But he was prepared for him, 
and, bounding lightly on one side, his falchion flashed for a 
moment over his head, and in the next it was deeply dyed 
in the purple blood of the monster. A roar of redoubled 
fury again resounded through the spacious amphitheater, as 
the enraged animal, mad with anguish from the wound he 
had just received, wheeled hastily round, and sprang a sec- 
ond time at the Nazarene. 

Again was the falchion of the cool and intrepid gladiator 
deeply planted in the breast of his terrible adversary ; but 
so sudden had been the second attack, that it was impossi- 
ble to avoid the full impetus of his bound, and he staggered 
and fell upon his knees. The monster's paw was upon his 
shoulder, and he felt his hot, fiery breath upon his cheek, as 
it rushed through his wide distended nostrils. The Naza- 
rene drew a short dagger from his girdle, and endeavored to 
regain his feet. But his foe, aware of his design, precipi- 
tating himself upon him, threw him with violence to the 
ground. 

The excitement of the populace was now wrought up to a 
high pitch, and they waited the result with breathless sus- 
pense. A low growl of satisfaction now announced the noble 
animal's triumph, as he sprang fiercely upon his prostrate 
enemy. But it was of short duration ; the dagger of the 
gladiator pierced his vitals, and together they rolled 
over and over across the broad arena. Again the dagger 
drank deep of the monster's blood, and again a roar of 
anguish reverberated through the stately edifice. 

The Nazarene, now watching his opportunity, sprang with 
the velocity of thought from the terrific embrace of his en- 
feebled antagonist, and regaining his falchion, which had 
fallen to the ground in the struggle, he buried it deep in the 
heart of the infuriated beast. The noble king of the forest, 
faint from the loss of blood,, concentrated all his remaining 
strength in one mighty bound ; but it was too late ; the last 
blow had been driven home to the center of life, and his 
huge form fell with a mighty crash upon the arena, amid the 
thundering acclamations of the populace. 



THE CHARACTER OF NAPOLEON. 8l 

THE_ CHARACTER OF NAPOLEON. 
Wendell Phillips. 

Flung into life in the midst of a revolution that quickened 
every energy of a people who acknowledged no superior, 
Napoleon commenced his course, a stranger by birth and a 
scholar by charity. With no friend but his sword he rushed 
into the lists where rank and wealth and genius had arrayed 
themselves ; and competition fled from him as from the 
glance of destiny. He knew no motive but interest. He 
acknowledged no criterion but success. He worshiped no 
god but ambition ; and with an Eastern devotion he knelt 
at the shrine of his idolatry. 

His person partook the character of his mind. If the one 
never yielded in the cabinet, the other never bent in the 
field. Nature had no obstacle that he did not surmount, 
space no opposition that he did not spurn ; and whether 
amid Alpine rocks, Arabian sands, or Polar snows, he seemed 
proof against peril, and empowered with ubiquity ! The 
whole continent trembled at beholding the audacity of his 
designs and the miracle of their execution. Skepticism 
bowed to the prodigies of his performance ; romance as- 
sumed the air of history ; nor was there aught too incredible 
for belief, or too fanciful for expectation, when the world 
saw a subaltern of Corsica waving his imperial flag over her 
most ancient capitals. All the visions of antiquity became 
commonplaces in his contemplation ; kings were his people, 
nations were his outposts ; and he disposed of courts, and 
crowns, and camps, and churches, and cabinets, as if they 
were titular dignitaries of the chess-board ! Amid all these 
changes he stood immutable as adamant. 

It mattered little whether in the field or in the drawing- 
room, with the mob or the levee, wearing the Jacobin bonnet 
or the iron crown, banishing a Braganza or espousing a 
Hapsburg, dictating peace on a raft to the Czar of Russia 
or contemplating defeat at the gallows of Leipzig, he was 
still the same military despot ! 

In this wonderful combination, his affectations of litera- 
ture must not be omitted. The jailer of the press, he affected 
the patronage of letters ; the proscriber of books, he en- 
couraged philosophy ; the persecutor of authors and the 
murderer of printers, he yet pretended to the protection of 
learning ; the assassin of Palm, the silencer of De Stael, and 



&2 THE CHARCOAL MAN. 

the denouncer of Kotzebue, he was the friend of David, the 
benefactor of De Lille, and sent his academic prize to the 
philosopher of England. Such a medley of contradictions, 
and at the same time such an individual consistency, were 
never united in the same character. A royalist, a republican, 
and an emperor, a Mohammedan, a Catholic, and a patron 
of the synagogue, a subaltern and a sovereign, a traitor and 
a tyrant, a Christian and an infidel, he was, through all his 
vicissitudes, the same stern, impatient, inflexible original ; 
the same mysterious, incomprehensible self ; the man with- 
out a model and without a shadow. 



THE CHARCOAL MAN. 
J. T. Trowbridge. 

Though rudely blows the wintry blast, 
And sifting snows fall white and fast, 
Mark Haley drives along the street, 
Perched high upon his wagon seat ; 
His somber face the storm defies, 
And thus from morn till eve he cries, — 

"Charco' ! charco' ! " 
While echo faint and far replies, — 

"Hark, O! hark, O!" 
"Charco' ! " — " Hark, O ! "—Such cheery sounds 
Attend him on his daily rounds. 

The dust begrimes his ancient hat ; 

His coat is darker far than that ; 

'Tis odd to see his sooty form 

All speckled with the feathery storm ; 

Yet in his honest bosom lies 

Nor spot, nor speck, — though still he cries,— 

" Charco' ! charco' ! " 
And many a roguish lad replies, — 

"Ark, ho! ark, ho!" 
" Charco' ! " — " Ark, ho ! " — Such various sounds 
Announce Mark Haley's morning rounds. 

Thus all the cold and wintry day 
He labors much for little pay ; 
Yet feels no less of happiness, 
Than many a richer man, I guess, 



AN INDIAN AT BURIAL PLACE OF HIS FATHERS. 83 

When through the shades of eve he spies 
The light of his own home, and cries, — 

" Charco' ! charco' ! " 
And Martha from the door replies, — 

"Mark, ho! Mark, ho!" 
"Charco' ! " — " Mark, ho ! " — Such joy abounds 
When he has closed his daily rounds. 

The hearth is warm, the fire is bright, 

And while his hand, washed clean and white, 

Holds Martha's tender hand once more, 

His glowing face bends fondly o'er 

The crib wherein his darling lies, 

And in a coaxing tone he cries, 

" Charco' ! charco' ! " 
And baby with a laugh replies, — 

" Ah, go ! ah, go ! " 
" Charco' ! " — " Ah, go ! " — while at the sounds 
The mother's heart with gladness bounds. 

Then honored be the charcoal man ! 
Though dusky as an African, 
'Tis not for you, that chance to be 
A little better clad than he, 
His honest manhood to despise, 
Although from morn till eve he cries, — 

"Charco' ! charco' ! " 
While mocking echo still replies, — 

" Hark, O ! hark, O ! " 
" Charco' ! "— " Hark, O ! "—Long may the sounds 
Proclaim Mark Haley's daily rounds ! 



AN INDIAN AT THE BURIAL-PLACE OF HIS 

FATHERS. 

William Cullen Bryant. 

It is the spot I came to seek, — 

My father's ancient burial-place, 
Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak, 

Withdrew our wasted race. 
It is a spot — I know it well — 
Of which our old traditions tell. 



84 AN INDIAN AT BURIAL PLACE OF HIS FATHERS. 

For here the upland bank sends out 
A ridge toward the river-side ; 

I know the shaggy lulls about, 
The meadows smooth and wide, 

The plains, that, toward the southern sky, 

Fenced east and west by mountains lie. 

A white man, gazing on the scene, 
Would say a lovely spot was here, 

And praise the lawns, so fresh and green, 
Between the hills so sheer. 

I like it not — I would the plain 

Lay in its tall old groves again. 

The sheep are on the slopes around, 
The cattle in the meadows feed, 

And laborers turn the crumbling ground, 
Or drop the yellow seed, 

And prancing steeds, in trappings gay, 

Whirl the bright chariot o'er the way. 

Methinks it were a nobler sight 

To see these vales in woods arrayed, 

Their summits in the golden light, 
Their trunks in grateful shade, 

And herds of deer, that bounding go 

O'er rills and prostrate trees below. 

And then to mark the lord of all, 
The forest hero, trained to wars, 

Quivered and plumed, and lithe and tall, 
And seamed with glorious scars, 

Walk forth, amid his reign, to dare 

The wolf, and grapple with the bear. 

This bank, in which the dead were laid, 
Was sacred when its soil was ours ; 

Hither the artless Indian maid 

Brought wreaths of beads and flowers, 

And the gray chief and gifted seer 

Worshiped the god of thunders here. 



AN INDIAN AT BURIAL PLACE OF HIS FATHERS. 8$ 

But now the wheat is green and high 
On clods that hid the warrior's breast, 

And scattered in the furrows lie 
The weapons of his rest, 

And there, in the loose sand, is thrown 

Of his large arm the moldering bone. 

Ah, little thought the strong and brave, 
Who bore the lifeless chieftain forth ; 

Or the young wife, that weeping gave 
Her first-born to the earth, 

That the pale race, who wastes us now, 

Among their bones should guide the plow. 

They waste us — ay — like April snow 
In the warm noon, we shrink away ; 

And fast they follow, as we go 
Toward the setting day, — 

Till they shall fill the land, and we 

Are driven into the western sea. 

But I behold a fearful sign, 

To which the white men's eyes are blind ; 
Their race may vanish hence, like mine, 

And leave no trace behind, 
Save ruins o'er the region spread, 
And the white stones above the dead. 

Before these fields were shorn and tilled, 
Full to the brim our rivers flowed ; 

The melody of waters filled 

The fresh and boundless wood ; 

And torrents dashed and rivulets played, 

And fountains spouted in the shade. 

Those grateful sounds are heard no more, 

The springs are silent in the sun, 
The rivers, by the blackened shore, 

With lessening current run ; 
The realm our tribes are crushed to get 
May be a barren desert yet. 



86 GREEN RIVER. 

GREEN RIVER. 

William Cullen Bryant. 

When breezes are soft and skies are fair, 
I steal an hour from study and care, 
And hie me away to the woodland scene, 
Where wanders the stream with waters of green ; 
As if the bright fringe of herds on its brink 
Had given their stain to the wave they drink ; 
And they, whose meadows it murmurs through, 
Have named the stream from its own fair hue. 

Yet pure its waters — its shallows are bright 

With colored pebbles and sparkles of light, 

And clear the depths where its eddies play, 

And dimples deepen and whirl away, 

And the plane-tree's speckled arms o'ershoot 

The swifter current that mines its root, 

Through whose shifting leaves, as you walk the hill, 

The quivering glimmer of sun and rill, 

With a sudden flash on the eye is thrown, 

Like the ray that streams from the diamond stone. 

Oh, loveliest there the spring days come, 

With blossoms, and birds, and wild bees' hum ; 

The flowers of summer are fairest there, 

And freshest the breath of the summer air ; 

And sweetest the golden autumn day 

In silence and sunshine glides away. 

Yet fair as thou art, thou shunn'st to glide, 
Beautiful stream ! by the village side ; 
But windest away from the haunts of men, 
To quiet valley and shaded glen ; 
And forest, and meadow, and slope of hill, 
Around thee, are lonely, lovely, and still. 
Lonely — save when, by thy rippling tides, 
From thicket to thicket the angler glides ; 
Or the simpler comes with basket and book, 
For herbs of power on thy banks to look ; 
Or haply, some idle dreamer, like me, 
To wander, and muse, and gaze on thee. 
Still — save the chirp of birds that feed 
On the river and cherry and seedy reed, 



REPLY TO HAYNE. 87 

And thy own wild music gushing out 
With mellow murmur and fairy shout, 
From dawn to the blush of another day, 
Like traveler singing along his way. 

That fairy music I never hear, 
Nor gaze on those waters so green and clear, 
And mark them winding away from sight, 
Darkened with shade or flashing with light, 
While o'er them the vine to its thicket clings, 
And the zephyr stoops to freshen his wings, 
But I wish that fate had left me free 
To wander these quiet haunts with thee, 
Till the eating cares of earth should depart, 
And the peace of the scene pass into my heart ; 
And I envy thy stream, as it glides along, 
Through its beautiful banks in a trance of song. 

Though forced to drudge for the dregs of men, 

And scrawl strange words with the barbarous pen, 

And mingle among the jostling crowd, 

Where the sons of strife are subtle and loud — 

I often come to this quiet place, 

To breathe the airs that ruffle thy face, 

And gaze upon thee in silent dream, 

For in thy lonely and lovely stream 

An image of that calm life appears 

That won my heart in my greener years. 



REPLY TO HAYNE. 

Daniel Webster; 

Matches and over-matches ! Those terms are more ap- 
plicable elsewhere than here, and fitter for other assemblies 
than this. The gentleman seems to forget where and what 
we are. This is a senate : a senate of equals : of men of 
individual honor and personal character, and of absolute 
independence. We know no masters ; we acknowledge no 
dictators. This is a hall for mutual consultation and dis- 
cussion, not an arena for the exhibition of champions. I 
offer myself as a match for no man, I throw the challenge of 
debate at no man's feet. But then, since the honorable mem- 



88 THE POWER OF SHRINES. 

ber has put the question in a manner that calls for an answer, 
I will give him an answer ; and I tell him that, holding 
myself to be the humblest of the members here, I yet know 
nothing in the arm of his friend from Missouri, either alone 
or when aided by the arm of his friend from South Carolina, 
that need deter even me from espousing whatever opinions I 
may choose to espouse, from debating whenever I may choose 
to debate, or from speaking whatever I may see fit to say, on 
the floor of the senate. When uttered as a matter of com- 
mendation or compliment, I should dissent from nothing 
which the honorable member might say of his friend. Still 
less do I put forth any pretensions of my own. But when 
put to me as a matter of taunt, I throw it back, and say to 
the gentleman that he could positively say nothing less likely 
than such a comparison to wound my pride of personal 
character. The anger of its tone rescued the remark from 
intentional irony, which otherwise, probably, would have 
been its general acceptation. But if it be imagined that, by 
this mutual quotation and commendation ; if it be supposed 
that, by casting the characters of the drama, assigning to 
each his part — to one the attack, to another the cry of onset ; 
or, if it be thought that by a loud and empty vaunt of antici- 
pated victory, any laurels are to be won here ; if it be imag- 
ined, especially, that any or all of these things will shake any 
purpose of mine, I can tell the honorable member, once for 
all, that he is greatly mistaken, and that he is dealing with 
one of whose temper and character he has yet much to learn. 
I shall not allow myself, on this occasion, to be betrayed into 
any loss of temper ; but if provoked, as I trust I never shall 
allow myself to be, into crimination and recrimination, the 
honorable member may perhaps find that, in that contest 
there will be blows to take as well as blows to give ; that 
others can state comparisons as significant, at least, as his 
own, and that his impunity may, perhaps, demand of him 
whatever powers of taunt and sarcasm he may possess. I 
commend him to a prudent husbandry of his resources. 



THE POWER OF SHRINES. 
Anon. 

During the battle of Balaklava, a Russian peasant and his 
little son were seen upon a neighboring hill watching the 
progress of the fight. It was just after Nolan and his " six 



THE POWER OF SHRINES. 89 

hundred " had made their immortal charge, and the little boy, 
as if horrified at the sight, suddenly exclaimed: "Father, 
what are they fighting for ? " Child's question though it was, 
its answer was full of meaning to that father, and pointing 
reverently toward the South, he exclaimed : " The shrine ! 
the shrine ! " and fell fainting upon the ground. 

This incident, which the muse of history has rarely 
chronicled, illustrates a power in human nature as strange as 
it is inherent and universal. Nations, states, individuals are 
worshipers at shrines — shrines which claim the homage of 
pride and piety, ambition, superstition, and the thousand 
sentiments which move the heart to deeds of glory or of 
shame. 

Eight centuries ago the hosts of Europe were marshaling 
for a conflict in the Holy Land. The hardy sons of Scot- 
land, the sturdy yeomanry of England, the blue-eyed dwell- 
ers by the Rhine and Danube, the dark-haired peasants of 
the Arno, gathered under a common banner, moved by a 
common impulse. What meant this great uprising that had 
enlisted the enthusiasm and zeal alike of kings and subjects ? 
No essential right of man had been invaded ; no nation had 
been oppressed ; but there was a city, sacred to the heart of 
the Christian world, a shrine before which Mary and Martha 
had watched and wept; a shrine which the valor of nations 
must wrest from the grasp of infidel might. We wonder 
to-day at the fanaticism which preached and fought the 
Crusades ; but it sprang from a sentiment which, in some 
form, ever lives. With how much of tragic grandeur it 
appeared in the war of the Crimea ! That unlettered peas- 
ant, upon the heights of Balaklava, solved a problem which 
had puzzled many a scholar. He saw beyond the craft of 
statesmanship the wiles and intrigues of diplomacy. He saw 
the shrine of his nation endangered when haughty France 
sought to crown, with her eagles and lilies, the spot where 
the "Man of Nazareth " was born. 

When the night was dark off Dungeness, when the North- 
fleet was reeling and groaning amid the angry billows, when 
affrighted passengers were crowding to the decks, when 
distracted fathers were seeking to rescue their loved ones, 
what supernal power held that brave captain to his post, 
while he kept back the crowd of rough men until the helpless 
and innocent were safe within the life-boats? "Good-by, 
Annie," his clear voice rang out to his young bride as the 



90 NEW ENGLAND. 

boats put off for the shore ; "I shall never see you again"; 
and the Northfleet went down amid the waters, and the 
captain was with the dead. Such actions men call heroism, 
bravery, love. What are these but passions and motives 
idealized, enshrined ? 

Every man has a shrine, some Mecca to whose divinity he 
yields a willing obedience. To it he brings his choicest 
gifts. Its power claims his evening orisons, his morning 
adorations. Is that shrine the home of appetite and sensu- 
ality ? the man is base. But if it be the dwelling-place of 
virtue, nobility, and love, it lifts him into the likeness of Him 
over whose shrine the angels sang carols eighteen hundred 
years ago. 



NEW ENGLAND. 
Percival. 

Hail to the land whereon we tread, 

Our fondest boast ; 
The sepulcher of mighty dead, 
The truest hearts that ever bled, 
Who sleep in glory's brightest bed, 

A fearless host : 
No slave is here, — our unchained feet 
Walk freely, as the waves that beat 

Our coast. 

Our fathers crossed the ocean's wave 

To seek this shore ; 
They left behind the coward slave, 
To welter in his living grave ; 
With hearts unbent, and spirits brave, 

They sternly bore 
Such toils, as meaner souls had quelled ; 
But souls like these such toils impelled 

To soar. 

Hail to the morn, when first they stood 

On Bunker's height, 
And, fearless, stemmed the invading flood, 
And w r rote our dearest rights in blood, 
And mowed in ranks the hireling brood, 



ISABEL. 91 

In desperate fight ! 

O ! 'twas a proud, exulting day, 

For e'en our fallen fortunes lay- 
In light. 

There is no other land like thee, 

No dearer shore ; 
Thou art the shelter of the free j 
The home, the port of liberty, 
Thou hast been, and shalt ever be, 

Till time is o'er. 
Ere I forget to think upon 
My land, shall mother curse the son 

She bore. 

Thou art the firm, unshaken rock, 

On which we rest ; 
And, rising from thy hardy stock, 
Thy sons the tyrant's frown shall mock, 
And slavery's galling chains unlock, 

And free the oppressed : 
All, who the wreath of freedom twine, 
Beneath the shadow of their vine, 

Are blest. 

We love thy rude and rocky shore, 

And here we stand, — 
Let foreign navies hasten o'er, 
And on our heads their fury pour, 
And peal their cannon's loudest roar, 

And storm our land, — 
They still shall find our lives are given 
To die for home ; and leaned on Heaven, 

Our hand. 



ISABEL. 

James Russell Lowell. 

As the leaf upon the tree, 
Fluttering, gleaming constantly, 
Such a lightsome thing was she, 
My gay and gentle Isabel ! 



92 "5SABEL. 

Her heart was fed with love-springs sweet, 
And in her face you'd see it beat 
To hear the sound of welcome feet — 
And were not mine so, Isabel ? 

She-knew it not, but she was fair, 
And like a moonbeam was her hair, 
That falls where flowing ripples are 
In summer evenings, Isabel ! 
Her heart and tongue were scarce apart, 
Unwittingly her lips would part, 
And love come gushing from her heart, 
The woman's heart of Isabel. 

So pure her flesh-garb, and like dew, 
That in her features glimmered through 
Each working of her spirit true, 
In wondrous beauty, Isabel ! 
A sunbeam struggling through thick leaves, 
A reaper's song 'mid yellow sheaves, 
Less gladsome were ; my spirit grieves 
To think of thee, mild Isabel ! 

I know not when I loved thee first ; 
Not loving, I had been accurst, 
Yet, having loved, my heart will burst, 
Longing for thee, dear Isabel ! 
With silent tears my cheeks are wet, 
I would be calm, I would forget, 
But thy blue eyes gaze on me yet, 
When stars have risen, Isabel. 

The winds mourn for thee, Isabel, 
The flowers expect thee in the dell, 
Thy gentle spirit loved them well, 
And I for thy sake, Isabel ! 
The sunsets seem less lovely now 
Than when, leaf checkered, on thy brow 
They fell as lovingly as thou 
Lingered'st till moonrise, Isabel ! 

At dead of night I seem to see 
Thy fair, pale features constantly 
Upturned in silent prayer for me, 
O'er moveless clasped hands, Isabel ! 



THE CREEDS OF THE BELLS. 93 

I call thee, thou dost not reply ; 
The stars gleam coldly on thine eye, 
As like a dream thou flittest by, 
And leav'st me weeping, Isabel ! 



THE CREEDS OF THE BELLS. 
George W. Bungay. 

How sweet the chime of the Sabbath bells ! 
Each one its creed in music tells, 
In tones that float upon the air, 
As soft as song, as pure as prayer ; 
And I will put in simple rhyme 
The language of the golden chime ; 
My happy heart with rapture swells 
Responsive to the bells, sweet bells. 

" In deeds of love excel ! excel ! " 
Chimed out from ivied towers a bell ; 
"This is the church not built on sands, 
Emblem of one not built with hands ; 
Its forms and sacred rights revere, 
Come worship here ! come worship here ! 
In rituals and faith excel ! " 
Chimed out the Episcopalian bell. 

" Oh, heed the ancient landmarks well ! " 
In solemn tones exclaimed a bell ; 
" No progress made by mortal man 
Can change the just, eternal plan : 
With God there can be nothing new ; 
Ignore the false, embrace the true, 
While all is well ! is well ! is well ! " 
Pealed out the good old Dutch church bell. 

"Ye purifying waters swell !" 
In mellow tones rang out a bell ; 
"Though faith alone in Christ can save, 
Man must be plunged beneath the wave, 
To show the world unfaltering faith 
In what the Sacred Scriptures saith : 
Oh, swell ! ye rising waters, swell ! " 
Pealed out the clear-toned Baptist bell. 



94 THE CREEDS OF THE BELLS. 

" Not faith alone, but works as well, 
Must test the soul ! " said a soft bell ; 
" Come here and cast aside your load, 
And work your way along the road, 
With faith in God, and faith in man, 
And hope in Christ, where hope began ; 
Do well ! do well ! do well ! do well ! " 
Rang out the Unitarian bell. 

" Farewell ! farewell ! base world, farewell ! " 
In touching tones exclaims a bell ; 
" Life is a boon, to mortals given 
To fit the soul for bliss in heaven ; 
Do not invoke the avenging rod, 
Come here and learn the way to God ; 
Say to the world, Farewell ! farewell ! " 
Pealed forth the Presbyterian bell. 

"To all, the truth we tell ! we tell ! " 
Shouted in ecstasies a bell ; 
"Come, all ye weary wanderers, see ! 
Our Lord has made salvation free ! " 
Repent, believe, have faith, and then 
Be saved, and praise the Lord, Amen ! 
Salvation's free, we tell ! we tell ! " 
Shouted the Methodistic bell. 

" In after life there is no hell ! " 
In raptures rang a cheerful bell ; 
" Look up to heaven this holy day, 
Where angels wait to lead the way ; 
There are no fires, no fiends to blight 
The future life ; be just and right. 
No hell ! no hell ! no hell ! no hell ! " 
Rang out the Universalist bell. 

"The Pilgrim Fathers heeded well 

My cheerful voice," pealed forth a bell; 

" No fetters here to clog the soul ; 

No arbitrary creeds control 

The free heart and progressive mind, 

That leave the dusty past behind. 

Speed well, speed well, speed well, speed well ! " 

Pealed out the Independent bell. 



HYMN TO THE NIGHT. 95 

" No pope, no pope, to doom to hell ! " 
The Protestant rang out a bell ; 
Great Luther left his fiery zeal 
Within the hearts that truly feel 
That loyalty to God will be 
The fealty that makes men free. 
" No images where incense fell ! " 
Rang oat old Martin Luther's bell. 

" All hail, ye saints in heaven that dwell 
Close by the cross ! " exclaimed a bell ; 
"Lean o'er the battlements of bliss, 
And deign to bless a world like this ; 
Let mortals kneel before this shrine — 
Adore the water and the wine ! 
All hail, ye saints, the chorus swell ! " 
Chimed in the Roman Catholic bell. 

"Ye workers who have toiled so well, 

To save the race ! " said a sweet bell, 

" With pledge, and badge, and banner, come, 

Each brave heart beating like a drum ; 

Be royal men of noble deeds, 

For love is holier than creeds ; 

Drink from the well, the well, the well ! " 

In rapture rang the Temperance bell. 



HYMN TO THE NIGHT. 
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 

I heard the trailing garments of the Night 
Sweep through her marble halls ! 

I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light 
From the celestial walls ! 

I felt her presence, by its spell of might, 

Stoop o'er me from above ; 
The calm, majestic presence of the Night, 

As of the one I love. 

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, 

The manifold, soft chimes, 
That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, 

Like some old poet's Rhymes. 



96 A PSALM OF LIFE. 

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air 

My spirit drank repose ; 
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there, — 

From those deep cisterns flows. 

O holy Night ! from thee I learn to bear 

What man has borne before ! 
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, 

And they complain no more. 

Peace ! Peace ! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer ! 

Descend with broad-winged flight, 
The welcome, the thrice-prayed-for, the most fair, 

The best-beloved Night ! 



A PSALM OF LIFE. 
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 

Tell us not, in mournful numbers, 
" Life is but an empty dream ! " 

For the soul is dead that slumbers, 
And things are not what they seem. 

Life is real ! Life is earnest ! 

And the grave is not its goal ; 
" Dust thou art, to dust returnest," 

Was not spoken of the soul. 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 

Is our destined end or way ; 
But to act, that each to-morrow 

Finds us farther than to-day. 

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, 

And our hearts, though stout and brave, 

Still, like muffled drums, are beating 
Funeral marches to the grave. 

In the world's broad field of battle, 

In the bivouac of Life, 
Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! 

Be a hero in the strife ! 



SOMEBODY S MOTHER. 97 

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant ! 

Let the dead Past bury its dead ! 
Act, — act in the living Present ! . 

Heart within, and God o'erhead ! 

Lives of great men all remind us 

We can make our lives sublime, 
And, departing, leave behind us 

Footsteps on the sands of time ; 

Footsteps, that perhaps another, . 

Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 

Seeing, may take heart again. 

Let us, then, be up and doing, 

With a heart for any fate ; 
Still achieving, still pursuing, 

Learn to labor and to wait. 



SOMEBODY'S MOTHER. 

Anon. 

The woman was old and ragged and gray, 
And bent with the chill of the winter's day 

The street was wet with a recent snow, 
And the woman's feet were aged and slow. 

She stood at the crossing and waited long, 
Alone, uncared for, amid the throng 

Of human beings who passed her by, 
Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye. 

Down the street, with laughter and shout, 
Glad in the freedom of " school let out," 

Came the boys, like a flock of sheep, 
Hailing the snow piled white and deep. 

Past the woman so old and gray 
Hastened the children on their way, 



98 THE THREE WORDS ARNOLD THE TRAITOR. 

Nor offered a helping hand to her, 
So meek, so timid, afraid to stir, 

Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet 
Should crowd her down on the slippery street. 

At last came one of the merry troop — 
The gayest laddie of all the group ; 

He paused beside her, and whispered low, 
" I'll help you across, if you wish to go." 

Her aged hand on his strong young arm 
She placed, and so, without hurt or harm, 

He guided the trembling feet along, 
Proud that his own were firm and strong. 

Then back again to his friends he went, 
His young heart happy and well content. 

" She's somebody's mother, boys, you know, 
For all she's aged and poor and slow ; 

And I hope some fellow will lend a hand 
To help my mother, you understand, 

If ever she's poor and old and gray, 
When her own dear boy is far away." 

And "somebody's mother " bowed low her head 
In her home that night, and the prayer she said, 

Was, " God, be kind to the noble boy, 
Who is somebody's son and pride and joy ! " 



THE THREE WORDS— ARNOLD, THE TRAITOR. 
George Lippard. 

Benedict Arnold sailed from our shores and came back no 
more. From that time forth, wherever he went, three 
whispered words followed him, singing through his ears into 
his heart — Arnold, the Traitor. 



THE THREE WORDS — ARNOLD THE TRAITOR. 99 

When he stood beside his king in the House of Lords — 
the weak old man whispered in familiar tones to his 
gorgeously attired General — a whisper crept through the 
thronged Senate, faces were turned, fingers extended, and, as 
the whisper deepened into a murmer, one venerable lord arose 
and stated that he loved his sovereign, but could not speak 
to him while by his side there stood — Arnold, the Traitor. 

//3Be went to the theater, parading his warrior form amicT\ 
the fairest flowers of British nobility and beauty, but no 
sooner was his visage seen than the whole audience rose — 
the lord in his cushioned seat, the vagrant of London in the 
gallery — they rose together, while from the pit to the dome 
echoed the cry — " Arnold, the Traitor ! " 

When he issued from his gorgeous mansion, the liveried 
servant that ate his bread, and earned it, too, by menial 
offices, whispered in contempt to his fellow lackey, as he took / 
his position behind his master's carriage, — Benedict Arnold,, 
\ the Traitor. 

s One day, in a shadowy room, a mother and two daughters, 
all attired in the weeds of mourning, were grouped in a sad 
circle, gazing upon a picture shrouded. in crape. A visitor 
now advanced ; the mother took his card from the hands of 
the servant, and the daughters heard his name. " Go ! " 
said that mother, rising with a flushed face, while a daughter 
took each hand — " Go ! and tell the man that my threshold 
can never be crossed by the murderer of my son — by Arnold, 
\the Traitor. 

"""Grossly insulted in a public place, he appealed to the com- 
pany — noble lords and reverend men were there — and breast- 
ing his antagonist with his fierce brow he spat full in his 
face. His antagonist was a man of tried courage. He coolly 
wiped the saliva from his cheek. " Time may spit upon me, 
but I never can pollute my sword by killing — Arnold, the 
/Traitor ! " 

He left London. He engaged in commerce. His ships 
were on the ocean, his warehouses in Nova Scotia, his plan- 
tations in the West Indies. One night his warehouse was 
burned to ashes. The entire population of St. Johns, accus- 
ing the owner of acting the part of incendiary to his own 
property, in order to defraud the insurance companies — 
assembled in that British town, in sight of his very window 
they hung an effigy, inscribed with these words — "Arnold, 
^he Traitor." 

\ * «i 



IOO THE THREE WORDS — ARNOLD THE TRAITOR. 

When the Island of Guadaloupe was retaken by the 
French, he was among the prisoners. He was put aboard a 
French prison-ship in the harbor. His money — thousands 
of yellow guineas, accumulated through the course of years — 
was about his person. Afraid of his own name, he called 
himself John Anderson, the name once assumed by John 
Andre. He deemed himself unknown, but the sentinel, 
approaching him, whispered that he was known and in great 
danger. He assisted him to escape, even aided him to secure 
his treasure in an empty cask, but as the prisoner, gliding 
down the side of the ship, pushed his raft toward the shore, 
that sentinel looked after him, and in broken English 
sneered — " Arnold, the Traitor ! " 

There was a day when Talleyrand arrived in Havre, hot- 
foot from Paris. It was in the darkest hour of the French 
Revolution. Pursued by the bloodhounds of the Reign of 
Terror, stripped of every wreck of property or power, Tal- 
leyrand secured a passage to America in a ship about to sail. 
He was going a beggar and a wanderer to a strange land to 
earn his bread by daily labor. 

" Is there any American gentleman staying at your 
house ? " he asked the landlord of his hotel. " I am about to 
cross the water, and would like a letter to some person of 
influence in the New World." 

The landlord hesitated for a moment, and then replied : 

" There is a gentleman up-stairs, either from America or 
Britain, but whether American or Englishman I cannot tell." 

He pointed the way, and Talleyrand — who in his life was 
Bishop, Prince, Prime Minister — ascended the stairs ; a ven- 
erable supplicant, he stood before the stranger's door, knocked 
and entered. 

In the far corner of a dimly lighted room sat a gentleman 
of some fifty years, his arms folded and his head bowed on 
his breast. From a window directly opposite, a flood of 
light poured over his forehead. His eyes, looking from 
beneath the downcast brow r s, gazed in Talleyrand's face, 
with a peculiar and searching expression. His face was 
striking in its outline ; the mouth and chin indicative of an 
iron will. 

His form, vigorous even with the snows of fifty winters, 
was clad in a dark but rich and distinguished costume. 

Talleyrand advanced — stated that he was a fugitive — and, 
under the impression that the gentleman before him. was an 
American, he solicited his kind offices. 



THE THREE WORDS — ARNOLD, THE TRAITOR. IOI 

He poured forth his story in eloquent French and broken 
English. 

"Iaraa wanderer — an exile. I am forced to fly to the 
New World, without a friend or a hope. You are an Ameri- 
can? Give me, then, I beseech you, a letter of introduction 
to some friend of yours, so that I may be enabled to earn my 
bread. I am willing to toil in any manner — the scenes of 
Paris have filled me with such horror that a life of labor 
would be Paradise to a career of luxury in France — you will 
give me a letter to one of your friends ? A gentleman, like 
you, has doubtless many friends." 

The strange gentleman rose. With a look that Talleyrand 
never forgot he retreated toward the door of the next 
chamber, still downcast, his eyes still looking from beneath 
his darkened brows. 

He spoke as he retreated backward : his voice was full of 
meaning. 

" I am the only man born in the New World that can raise 
his hand to God, and say — I have not one friend — not 
one — in all America." 

Talleyrand never forgot the overwhelming sadness of that 
look which accompanied these words. 

"Who are you?" he cried, as the strange man retreated 
toward the next room — " Your name ?" 

" My name — " with a smile that had more of mockery than 
joy in its convulsive expression — " my name is Benedict 
Arnold." 

He was gone. Talleyrand sank into a chair, gasping the 
words — " Arnold, the Traitor." 

Thus, you see, he wandered over the earth, another Cain, 
with the murderer's mark upon his brow. Even in the 
secluded room of that inn at Havre his crime found him out 
and forced him to tell his name, that name the synonym of 
infamy. 

The last twenty years of his life are covered with a cloud 
from whose darkness but a few gleams of light flash out upon 
the page of history. 

The manner of his death is not distinctly known. But we 
cannot doubt that he died utterly friendless, that his cold 
brow was unmoistened by one farewell tear, that remorse pur- 
sued him to the grave, whispering John Andre ! in his ears, 
and that the memory of his course of glory gnawed like a 
canker at his heart, murmuring forever, " True to your 



102 THE GRAVES OF THE PATRIOTS. 

country, what might you have been, oh, Arnold, the 
Traitor ! " 

In the closing scene of this wild drama I have dared to 
paint the agony of his death-hour, with a trembling hand 
and hushed breath I have lifted the curtain from the death- 
bed of Benedict Arnold. 



THE GRAVES OF THE PATRIOTS. 
James G. Percival. 

Here rest the great and good. Here they repose 
After their generous toil. A sacred band, 
They take their sleep together, while the year 
Comes with its early flowers to deck their graves, 
And gathers them again, as Winter frowns. 
Theirs is no vulgar sepulcher — green sods 
Are all their monument, and yet it tells 
A nobler history than pillared piles, 
Or the eternal pyramids. 

They need 
No statue nor inscription to reveal 
Their greatness. It is round them ; and the joy 
With which their children tread the hallowed ground 
That holds their venerated bones, the peace 
That smiles on all they fought for, and the wealth 
That clothes the land they rescued — these, though mute 
As feeling ever is when deepest — these 
Are monuments more lasting than the fanes 
Reared to the kings and demigods of old. 

Touch not the ancient elms, that bend their shade 

Over their lowly graves ; beneath their boughs 

There is a solemn darkness even at noon, 

Suited to such as visit at the shrine 

Of serious Liberty. No factious voice 

Called them unto the field of generous fame, 

But the pure consecrated love of home. 

No deeper feeling sways us, when it wakes 

In all its greatness. It has told itself 

To the astonished gaze of awe-struck kings, 



ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. 103 

At Marathon, at Bannockburn, and here, 
Where first our patriots sent the invader back 
Broken and cowed. Let these green elms be all 
To tell us where they fought, and where they lie. 

Their feelings were all nature, and they need 
No art to make them known. They live in us, 
While we are like them, simple, hardy, bold, 
Worshiping nothing but our own pure hearts, 
And the one universal Lord. They need 
No column pointing to the heaven they sought, 
To tell us of their home. The heart itself, 
Left to its own free purpose, hastens there, 
And there alone reposes. 

Let these elms 
Bend their protecting shadow o'er their graves, 
And build with their green roof the only fane, 
Where we may gather on the hallowed day 
That rose to them in blood, and set in glory. 
Here let us meet, and while our motionless lips 
Give not a sound, and all around is mute 
In the deep Sabbath of a heart too full 
For words or tears — here let us strew the sod 
With the first flowers of spring, and make to them 
An offering of the plenty Nature gives, 
And they have rendered ours — perpetually. 



ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCH- YARD. 

Thomas Gray. 
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 

The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, 
The plowman homeward plods his weary way, 

And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 
And all the air a solemn stillness hold, 

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds. 

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower 
The moping owl does to the moon complain 

Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, 
Molest her ancient solitary reign. 



104 ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 

•Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap, 
Each in his narrow cell forever laid, 

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, 

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 
Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 

No children run to lisp their sire's return, 
Or climb his knees, the envied kiss to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke : 

How jocund did they drive their team afield ! 

How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke. 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 

Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 
And all that beauty, all that wealth, e'er gave, 

Await alike th' inevitable hour : 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, 
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 

Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 

Can storied urn, or animated bust, 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? 

Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust, 
Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death ? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; 

Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, 
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre ; 



ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. 105 

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, 
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; 

Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem, of purest ray serene, 

The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear ; 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast 
The little tyrant of his fields withstood, — 

Some mute, inglorious Milton, — here may rest ; 
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. 

Th' applause of listening senates to command, 
The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 
And read their history in a nation's eyes, 

Their lot forbade ; nor circumscribed alone 

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ; 

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 

Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride 
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 

Far from the maddening crowd's ignoble strife, 
Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; 

Along the cool, sequestered vale of life 
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way; 

Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect, 

Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, 

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unlettered Muse, 

Tne place of fame and elegy supply ; 
And many a holy text around she strews, 

That teach the rustic moralist to die. 



106 ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. 

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 
This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ? 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 
Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; 

E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, 
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 

For thee, who mindful of th' unhonored dead, 
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate, 

If 'chance, by lonely contemplation led, 

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, — 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 
" Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn, 

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, 
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 

" There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech. 
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 
His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 
And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 

" Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 

Muttering his wayward fancies, would he rove, 
Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn, 
Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. 

" One morn I missed him on the 'customed hill, 
Along the heath, and near his favorite tree : 
Another came, — nor yet beside the rill, 
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood, was he : 

" The next, with dirges due, in sad array, 

Slow through the church way path we saw him borne 
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 

THE EPITAPH. 

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth, 
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown : 

Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, 
And Melancholy marked him for her own. 



SCYTHIAN AMBASSADORS TO ALEXANDER. 107 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, 
Heaven did a recompense as largely send : 

He gave to misery — all he had — a tear. 

He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend. 

No further seek his merits to disclose, 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 

(There they alike in trembling hope repose), 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 



SPEECH OF THE SCYTHIAN AMBASSADORS TO 

ALEXANDER THE GREAT. 

Aikin. 

If your person were as vast as your desires, the whole 
world would not contain you. Your right hand would 
touch the east, and your left the west, at the same time. 
You grasp at more than you are equal to. From Europe 
you reach Asia ; from Asia you lay hold on Europe. And 
if you should conquer all mankind, you seem disposed to 
wage war with woods and snows, with rivers and wild 
beasts, and to subdue nature. 

But, have you considered the usual course of things? 
Have you reflected that great trees are many years in grow- 
ing to their height, but are cut down in an hour ? It is 
foolish to think of the fruit only, without considering the 
height you have to climb to come at it. Take care, lest, 
while you strive to reach the top, you fall to the ground, 
with the branches you have already laid hold on. 

The lion, when dead, is devoured by ravens ; and rust 
consumes the hardness of iron. There is nothing so strong 
but it is in danger from what is weak. It will, therefore, be 
your wisdom to take care how you venture beyond your 
reach. 

Besides, what have you to do with the Scythians ; or the 
Scythians with you ? We have never invaded Macedonia ; 
why should you attack Scythia ? We inhabit vast deserts 
and pathless woods, where we do not want to hear the 
name of Alexander. We are not disposed to submit to 
slavery ; and we have no ambition to tyrannize over any 
nation. 

That you may understand the genius of the Scythians, 



Io8 A MIDNIGHT MURDER. 

we present you with a yoke of oxen, an arrow, and a goblet. 
We use these, respectively, in our commerce with friends 
and with foes. We give to our friends the corn, which we 
raise by the labor of our oxen. With the goblet we join 
in pouring out drink-offerings to the gods ; and with the 
arrows we attack our enemies. 

You pretend to be the punisher of robbers, and are 
yourself the greatest robber the world ever saw. You 
have taken Lydia ; you have seized Syria ; you are mas- 
ter of Persia ; you have subdued the Bactrians, and at- 
tacked India. All this will not satisfy you, unless you 
lay your greedy and insatiable hands upon our flocks and 
herds. 

How imprudent is your conduct ! You grasp at riches, 
the possession of which only increases your avarice. You 
increase your hunger, by that which should produce satiety ; 
so that the more you have, the more you desire. 



BOMBASTIC DESCRIPTION OF A MIDNIGHT 
MURDER. 

'Twas night. The stars were shrouded in a veil of mist ; 
a clouded canopy o'erhung the world. The vivid lightnings 
flashed, and shook their fiery darts upon the earth. The 
deep-toned thunder rolled along the vaulted sky ; the ele- 
ments were in wild commotion ; the storm-spirit howled in 
the air ; the winds whistled ; the hail-stones fell like leaden 
balls ; the huge undulations of the ocean dashed upon the 
rock-bound shore, and torrents leaped from mountain tops, 
when the murderer sprang from his sleepless couch with 
vengeance on his brow, murder in his heart, and the fell 
instrument of destruction in his hand. 

The storm increased. The lightning flashed with brighter 
glare ; the thunder growled with deeper energy ; the wind 
whistled with a wilder fury ; the confusion of the hour was 
congenial to his soul and the stormy passions which raged 
in his bosom. He clinched his weapon with a sterner grasp, 
a demoniac smile gathered on his lip ; he grated his teeth, 
raised his arm, sprang with a yell of triumph upon his vic- 
tim, and relentlessly killed — a mosquito. 



CAUGHT IN THE QUICKSAND. 109 

CAUGHT IN THE QUICKSAND. 
Victor Hugo. 

It sometimes happens that a man, traveler or fisherman, 
walking on the beach at low tide, far from the bank, sud- 
denly notices that for several minutes he has been walking 
with some difficulty. The strand beneath his feet is like 
pitch ; his soles stick in it ; it is sand no longer ; it is glue. 

The beach is perfectly dry, but at every step he takes, as 
soon as he lifts his foot, the print which he leaves fills with 
water. The eye, however, has noticed no change ; the 
immense strand is smooth and tranquil ; all the sand has 
the same appearance; nothing distinguishes the surface 
which is solid from that which is no longer so ; the joyous 
little crowd of sand-flies continue to leap tumultuously over 
the wayfarer's feet. The man pursues his way, goes for- 
ward, inclines to the land, endeavors to get nearer the up- 
land. 

He is not anxious. Anxious about what ? Only he feels, 
somehow, as if the weight of his feet increases with every 
step he takes. Suddenly he sinks in. 

He sinks in two or three inches. Decidedly he is not on 
the right road ; he stops to take his bearings ; now he looks 
at his feet. They have disappeared. The sand covers 
them. He draws them out of the sand ; he will retrace his 
steps. He turns back, he sinks in deeper. The sand comes 
up to his ankles ; he pulls himself out and throws himself to 
the left — the sand half-leg deep. He throws himself to the 
right ; the sand comes up to his shins. Then he recognizes 
with unspeakable terror that he is caught in the quicksand, 
and that he has beneath him the terrible medium in which 
man can no more walk than the fish can swim. He throws 
off his load if he has one, lightens himself as a ship in dis- 
tress ; it is already too late ; the sand is above his knees. 
He calls, he waves his hat or his handkerchief ; the sand 
gains on him more and more. If the beach is deserted, if 
the land is too far off, if there is no help in sight, it is ail 
over. 

He is condemned to that appalling burial, long, infallible, 
implacable, and impossible to slacken or to hasten ; which 
endures for hours ; which seizes you erect, free, and in full 
health, and which draws you by the feet ; which, at every 



IIO THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 

effort that you attempt, at every shout you utter, drags 
you a little deeper, sinking you slowly into the earth while 
you look upon the horizon, the sails of the ships upon the 
sea, the birds flying and singing, the sunshine and the sky. 
The victim attempts to sit down, to lie down, to creep ; every 
movement he makes inters him ; he straightens up, he sinks 
in ; he feels that he is being swallowed. He howls, implores, 
cries to the clouds, despairs. 

Behold him waist deep in the sand. The sand reaches 
his breast ; he is now only a bust. He raises his arms, 
utters furious groans, clutches the beach with his nails, 
would hold by that straw, leans upon his elbows to pull him- 
self out of this soft sheath ; sobs frenziedly ; the sand rises ; 
the sand reaches his shoulders ; the sand reaches his neck ; 
the face alone is visible now. The mouth cries, the sand 
fills it — silence. The eyes still gaze, the sand shuts them — 
night. Now the forehead decreases, a little hair flutters 
above the sand ; a hand comes to the surface of the beach, 
moves and shakes, disappears. It is the earth drowning 
man. The earth filled with the ocean becomes a trap. It 
presents itself like a plain and opens like a wave. 



THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 
Lord Byron. 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, 
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; 

And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, 
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, 
That host with their banners at sunset were seen: 

Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, 
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. 

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, 
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed ; 

And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, 
And their hearts but once heaved and forever grew still! 

And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide, 

But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride: 



THE BARONS LAST BANQUET. Ill 

And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 

And there lay the rider distorted and pale, 

With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; 

And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, 
And the idols are broken in the temple of Baal; 

And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord ! 



THE BARON'S LAST BANQUET. 

Albert C. Creene. 

O'er a low couch the setting sun had thrown its latest ray, 

Where, in his last strong agony, a dying warrior lay — 

The stern old Baron Rudiger, whose frame had ne'er been 

bent 
By wasting pain, till time and toil its iron strength had spent. 
"They come around me here, and say my days of life are 

o'er — 
That I shall mount my noble steed and lead my band no 

more; 
They come, and, to my beard, they dare to tell me now that I, 
Their own liege lord and master born, that I — ha! ha! — must 

die. 
And what is death? I've dared him oft, before the Paynim 

spear; 
Think ye he's entered at my gate— has come to seek me here? 
I've met him, faced him, scorned him, when the fight was 

raging hot; 
I'll try his might — I'll brave his power — defy, and fear him 

not ! 
Ho ! sound the tocsin from my tower, and fire the culverin; 
Bid each retainer arm with speed ; call every vassal in: 
Up with my banner on the wall — the banquet-board pre- 
pare — 
Throw wide the portals of my hall, and bring my armor 

there!" 



112 THE BARONS LAST BANQUET. 

An hundred hands were busy then : the banquet forth was 

spread, 
And rang the heavy oaken floor with many a martial tread ; 
While from the rich, dark tracery, along the vaulted wall, 
Lights gleamed on harness, plume and spear, o'er the proud 

old Gothic hall. 
Fast hurrying through the outer gate the mailed retainers 

poured, 
On through the portal's frowning arch, and thronged around 

the board ; 
While at its head, within his dark, carved, oaken chair of 

state, 
Armed cap-a-pie, stern Rudiger, with girded falchion sate. 
" Fill every beaker up, my men ! — pour forth the cheering 

wine ! 
There's life and strength in every drop — thanksgiving to the 

vine ! 
Are ye all there, my vassals true? — my eyes are waxing dim. 
Fill round, my tried and fearless ones, each goblet to the 

brim ! 
Ye're there, but yet I see you not ! — Draw forth each trusty 

sword, 
And let me hear your faithful steel clash once around my 

board ! 
I hear it faintly ; louder yet ! What clogs my heavy breath ? 
Up, all ! — and shout for Rudiger, * Defiance unto Death ! ' ! 
Bowl rang to bowl, steel clanged to steel, and rose a deafen- 
ing cry, 
That made the torches flare around, and shook the flags on 

high : 
"Ho! cravens! do ye fear him? Slaves! traitors! have 

ye flown ? 
Ho ! cowards, have ye left me to meet him here alone ? 
But I defy him ! — let him come ! " Down rang the massy 

cup, 
While from its sheath the ready blade came flashing half- 
way up ; 
And, with the black and heavy plumes scarce trembling on 

his head, 
There, in his dark, carved, oaken chair, old Rudiger sat — 

dead ! 



HEROISM. 113 

HEROISM. 
Hale. 

The heroic element enters largely into the world's experi- 
ence, and assumes phases as various as the stages of its his- 
tory. Very different is the unflinching heroism of John 
Maynard, standing, with scathed eyes and crisped hands, 
on the deck of a burning steamer, and guiding her in safety 
amid an agony of fire, and that of John Huss, perishing so 
calmly on the funeral pyre of Constance. One was inspired 
duty, the other the divinity of faith. One was the highest 
type of human courage, the other the grandest form of 
Christian sacrifice. One was the Mecca of earthly immor- 
tality, the other the portal of the heavenly life. 

There is a heroism of patriotism. It is seen in the 
bravery of a Leonidas ; in the " Don't give up the ship " of 
a Lawrence ; in the dying words of a Warren ; in the sacri- 
fice of the " Little Regiment " ; in a Farragut lashed to the 
maintop of the Hartford. 

The grandest heroism, however, and that which embodies 
all others, is the heroism of the Cross. Its achievements 
are seldom noted ; its deeds and its devotion rarely told. 

The last beams of the setting sun fall on the gray walls 
and ivy-crowned turrets of a convent, and, flashing through 
an open casement, light up with a tremulous glory the face 
of a dying nun. Her life of love, of devotion, of perfect 
purity, is nearly ended. No thoughts of time misspent or 
opportunities neglected, no recollection of cold charity, no 
shadow of crime, no echo of wrong, harass her last mo- 
ments. Her life ebbs so peacefully, that the balmy air of 
evening, redolent with the perfume of flowers, and thrilling 
with Nature's vesper hymn, lullabies her dreamless sleep 
long after her ears are deaf to its melody. No minute guns, 
no flags at half mast, no nation in tears because her spirit 
has departed. Only the low sob of the organ, the solemn 
chant of sorrowing sisters, or, perchance, the tearful prayer 
of some whose pain she has soothed, whose sorrow she has 
cheered. Hers was an earthly mission and a heavenly re- 
ward ; and the true heroism of her life realizes its perfection 
when her enraptured soul thrills with the praise of the 
angels and the " Well done " of the Infinite. 

There is also a heroism of self-sacrifice. When the life- 



114 HORATIUS AT THE BRIDGE. 

boats were crowded so they could not hold another, the old 
captain stood proudly on the deck of his sinking vessel ; 
refused to go on board ; refused to risk the lives of a score 
that he might save his own. " The old ship and I have 
weathered many a gale together, and I'll not desert her 
now, when she's almost slipped her cable. So shove off, 
my hearties ! shove off ! and if the admiral asks for me, 
tell him that I and the ' Witch of the Wave ' sleep breast to 
breast at the bottom of Davy Jones's locker." 

There is, too, a heroism of genuine devotion to principle, 
sometimes akin to patriotism. Such was the heroism of 
Alexander H. Stephens in his blind adherence to an erring 
State, of Stonewall Jackson in his idolatry of Southern 
rights, and of Lord Byron in his death for struggling Greece 
and a lost cause. 



HORATIUS AT THE BRIDGE. 

Lord Macaulay. 

To Rome a scout came flying, all wild with haste and fear 
" To arms ! to arms ! Sir Consul ; Lars Porsena is here." 
On the low hills to westward the Consul fixed his eye, 
And saw the swarthy storm of dust ride fast along the sky. 

The Consul's brow was sad, 

And the Consul's speech was low, 
And darkly looked he at the wall, 

And darkly at the foe. 
" Their van will be upon us 

Before the bridge goes down ; 
And if they once may win the bridge, 

What hope to save the town ?" 

Then out spake brave Horatius, 

The Captain of the gate : 
" To every man upon this earth 

Death cometh soon or late. 
Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, 

With all the speed ye may ; 
I, with two more to help me, 

Will hold the foe in play. 



HORATIUS AT THE BRIDGE. 115 

" In yon strait path a thousand 

May well be stopped by three. 
Now who will stand on either hand, 

And keep the bridge with me ? " 
Then out spake Spurius Lartius ; 

A Ramnian proud was he : 
" Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, 

And keep the bridge with thee." 

And out spake strong Herminius ; 

Of Titian blood was he : 
" I will abide on thy left side, 

And keep the bridge with thee." 
il Horatius," quoth the Consul, 

" As thou sayest, so let it be." 
And straight against that great array 

Forth went the dauntless Three. 



Meanwhile the Tuscan army, 

Right glorious to behold, 
Came flashing back the noonday light, 

Like a broad sea of gold. 
Four hundred trumpets sounded 

A peal of warlike glee, 
As that great host, with measured tread, 

Opposed the dauntless Three. 



But meanwhile ax and lever 
Have manfully been plied, 

And now the bridge hangs tottering 
Above the boiling tide. 

" Come back, come back, Horatius ! " 



Loud cried the Fathers all. 
" Back, Lartius ! back, Herminius ! 

■5 



Back, ere the ruin fall ! 



Back darted Spurius Lartius, 

Herminius darted back : 
And, as they passed, beneath their feet 

They felt the timbers crack. 



Il6 HORATIUS AT THE BRIDGE. 

But when they turned their faces, 
And on the farther shore 

Saw brave Horatius stand alone, 

They would have crossed once more. 

But with a crash like thunder 

Fell every loosened beam, 
And, like a dam, the mighty wreck 

Lay right athwart the stream : 
And a long shout of triumph 

Rose from the walls of Rome, 
As to the highest turret-tops 

Was splashed the yellow foam. 

Alone stood brave Horatius, 

But constant still in mind ; 
Thrice thirty thousand foes before, 

And the broad flood behind. 
" Down with him ! " cried false Sextus, 

With a smile on his pale face, 
" Now yield thee ! " cried Lars Porsena, 

" Now yield thee to our grace." 

Round turned he, as not deigning 

Those craven ranks to see ; 
Naught spake he to Lars Porsena, 

To Sextus naught spake he : 
But he saw on Palatinus 

The white porch of his home ; 
And he spake to the noble river 

That rolls by the towers of Rome. 

"Oh, Tiber ! Father Tiber! ' 

To whom the Romans pray, 
A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, 

Take thou in charge this day ! " 
So he spake, and, speaking, sheathed 

The good sword by his side, 
And with his harness on his back, 

Plunged headlong in the tide. 

No sound of joy or sorrow 
Was heard from either bank ; 



DECISIVE INTEGRITY. II'J 

But friends and foes, in dumb surprise, 

Stood gazing where he sank ; 
And when above the surges 

They saw his crest appear, 
Rome shouted, and e'en Tuscany 

Could scarce forbear to cheer. 

" Curse on him !" quoth false Sextus, 

" Will not the villain drown ? 
But for this stay, ere close of day 

We should have sacked the town ! " 
" Heaven help him ! " quoth Lars Porsena, 

"And bring him safe to shore ; 
For such a gallant feat of arms 

Was never seen before." 

And n*>w he feels the bottom ; 

Now on dry earth he stands ; 
Now round him throng the Fathers 

To press his gory hands ; 
And now, with shouts and clapping, 

And noise of weeping loud, 
He enters through the River-Gate, 

Borne by the joyous crowd. 



DECISIVE INTEGRITY. 
William Wirt. 

The man who is so conscious of the rectitude of his in- 
tentions as to be willing to open his bosom to the inspection 
of the world is in possession of one of the strongest pillars 
of a decided character. The course of such a man will be 
firm and steady, because he has nothing to fear from the 
world and is sure of the approbation and support of Heaven. 
While he who is conscious of secret and dark designs, 
which, if known, would blast him, is perpetually shrinking 
and dodging from public observation, and is afraid of all 
around, and much more of all above him. 

Such a man, may, indeed, pursue his iniquitous plans stead- 
ily; he may waste himself to a skeleton in the guilty pursuit; 
but it is impossible that he can pursue them with the same 
health-inspiring confidence and exulting alacrity with him 



Il8 DECISIVE INTEGRITY. 

who feels, at every step, that he is in the pursuit of honest 
ends, by honest means. The clear, unclouded brow, the 
open countenance, the brilliant eye which can look an honest 
man steadfastly, yet courteously, in the face, the healthfully 
beating heart, and the firm, elastic step, belong to him 
whose bosom is free from guile, and who knows that all his 
motives and purposes are pure and right. Why should such 
a man falter in his course? He may be slandered; he may 
be deserted by the world; but he has that within which will 
keep him erect, and enable him to move onward in his 
course with his eyes fixed on Heaven, which he knows will 
not desert him. 

Let your first step, then, in that discipline which is to give 
you decision of character, be the heroic determination to be 
honest men, and to preserve this character through every 
vicissitude of fortune, and in every relation which connects 
you with society. I do not use this phrase, ''honest men," 
in the narrow sense, merely, of meeting your pecuniary 
engagements and paying your debts ; for this the common 
pride of gentlemen will constrain you to do. I use it in its 
larger sense of discharging all your duties, both public and 
private, both open and secret, with the most scrupulous, 
Heaven-attesting integrity; in that sense, farther, which 
drives from the bosom all little, dark, crooked, sordid, de- 
basing considerations of self, and substitutes in their place a 
bolder, loftier, and nobler spirit; one that will dispose you 
to consider yourself as born, not so much for yourself as for 
your country and your fellow-creatures, and which will lead 
you to act on every occasion sincerely, justly, generously, 
magnanimously. 

There is a morality on a larger scale^ perfectly consistent 
with a just attention to your own affairs, which it would be 
the height of folly to neglect; a generous expansion, a proud 
elevation and conscious greatness of character, which is the 
best preparation for a decided course in every situation into 
which you can be thrown; and it is to this high and noble 
tone of character that I would have you to aspire. I would 
not have you resemble those weak and meager streamlets 
which lose their direction at every petty impediment that 
presents itself, and stop, and turn back, and creep around, 
and search out every little channel through which they may 
wind their feeble and sickly course. Nor yet would I have 
you resemble the headlong torrent that carries havoc in its 



THE RAVEN. 119 

mad career. But I would have you like the ocean, that 
noblest emblem of majestic decision, which, in the calmest 
hour, still heaves its resistless might of waters to the shore, 
filling the heavens, day and night, with the echoes of its sub- 
lime declaration of independence, and tossing and sporting 
on its bed with an imperial consciousness of strength that 
laughs at opposition. It is this depth, and weight, and 
power, and purity of character, that I would have you re- 
semble; and I would have you, like the waters of the ocean, 
to become the purer by your own action. 



THE RAVEN. 

Edgar A. Poe. 

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and 

weary, 
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, — 
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a 

tapping, 
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. 
"'Tis some visitor," I mutter'd, "tapping at my chamber 
door. 

Only this, and nothing more." 

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, 

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the 
floor. 

Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to bor- 
row 

From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost 
Lenore — 

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named 
Lenore — 

Nameless here forever more. 

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain, 

Thrill'd me — fill'd me with fantastic terrors never felt before; 

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeat- 
ing, 

' 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber 
door, — 

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door ; 
That it is, and nothing more." 



120 THE RAVEN. 

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, 

"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; 

But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rap- 
ping, m 

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber 
door, 

That I scarce was sure I heard you " — here I open'd wide 
the door; 

Darkness there, and nothing more. 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wonder- 
ing, fearing, 

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream 
before; 

But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no 
token, 

And the only word there spoken was the whisper'd word 
"Lenore!" 

This I whisper'd, and an echo murmur'd back the word 
"Lenore!" 

Merely this, and nothing more. 

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burn- 
ing, 

Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than be- 
fore. 

" Surely," said I, " surely that is something at my window- 
lattice; 

Let me see then what there at is, and this mystery explore, — 

Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore ; — 
'Tis the wind, and nothing more." 

Open then I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and 

flutter, 
In there stepp'd a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. 
Not the least obeisance made he ; not an instant stopp'd or 

stay'd he ; 
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber 

door, — 
Perch'd upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber 

door, — 

Perch'd, and sat, and nothing more. 



THE RAVEN. 121 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, 
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, 
"Though thy crest be shorne and shaven, thou," I said, 

"art sure no craven ; 
Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the 

nightly shore, 
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian 

shore ?" 

Quoth the raven, " Nevermore ! " 

Much I marvel'd this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so 

plainly, 
Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore ; 
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being 
Ever yet was bless'd with seeing bird above his chamber 

door, 
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber 

door. 

With such name as " Nevermore ! " 

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only 

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did out- 
pour. 

Nothing further then he utter'd — not a feather then he 
flutter'd — 

Till I scarcely more than mutter'd, " Other friends have 
flown before — 

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown 
before." 

Then the bird said, " Nevermore ! " 

Startled at the stillness, broken by reply so aptly spoken, 
" Doubtless," said I, " what it utters is its only stock and 

store, 
Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster 
Follow'd fast and followed faster, till his song one burden 

bore, — 
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore, 
Of " Nevermore — nevermore ! " 

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, 
Straight I wheel'd a cushion'd seat in front of bird, and bust, 
and door, 



122 THE RAVEN. 

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking 
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore — 
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird 
of yore 

Meant in croaking " Nevermore ! " 

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing 
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's 

core ; 
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining 
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated 

o'er, 
But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamp-light gloating 

o'er, 

She shall press — ah ! nevermore ! 

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an un- 
seen censer, 

Swung by seraphim, whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted 
floor. 

" Wretch," I cried, " thy God hath lent thee — by these angels 
he hath sent thee 

Respite — respite and nepenthe from the memories of Lenore ! 

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Le- 
nore ! " 

Quoth the raven, " Nevermore ! " 

" Prophet ! " said I, " thing of evil ! — prophet still, if bird 

or devil ! 
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest toss'd thee here 

ashore, 
Desolate yet all undaunted on this desert land enchanted — 
On this home by horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore — 
Is there — is there balm in Gilead ? — tell me — tell me, I im- 
plore ! " 

Quoth the raven, " Nevermore ! " 

" Prophet ! " said I, " thing of evil ! — prophet still, if bird or 

devil ! 
By that heaven that bends above us — by that God we both 

adore, 
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn, 



AMBITION. I23 

It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name 

Lenore ; 
Clasp a fair and radiant maiden, whom the angels name 

Lenore ! " 

Quoth the raven, " Nevermore ! " 

" Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend ! " I shrieked, 

upstarting — 
" Get thee back into the tempest and the night's Plutonian 

shore ! " 
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath 

spoken ! 
Leave my loneliness unbroken ! — quit the bust above my door ! 
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from 

off my door ! " 

Quoth the raven, " Nevermore ! " 

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting, 
On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door ; 
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dream- 

And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on 

the floor ; 
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the 

floor, 

Shall be lifted — nevermore ! 



AMBITION. 
Henry Clay. 

I have been accused of ambition in presenting this meas- 
ure, — inordinate ambition! If I had thought of myself 
only, I should have never brought it forward. I know well 
the perils to which I expose myself, — the risk of alienating 
faithful and valued friends, with but little prospect of 
making new ones, if any new ones could compensate for 
the loss of those we have long tried and loved; and the hon- 
est misconception, both of friends and foes. Ambition! If 
I had listened to its soft and seducing whispers, if I had 
yielded myself to the dictates of a cold, calculating, and pru- 
dential policy, I would have stood still. I might have 



124 THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 

silently gazed on the raging storm, enjoyed its loudest thun- 
ders, and left those who are charged with the care of the 
vessel of state to conduct it as they could. I have been 
heretofore often unjustly accused of ambition. Low, grov- 
eling souls, who are utterly incapable of elevating them- 
selves to the higher and nobler duties of pure patriotism, 
beings who, forever keeping their own selfish aims in view, 
decide all public measures by their presumed influence on 
their aggrandizement, judge me by the venal rule which 
they prescribe to themselves. I have given to the winds 
those false accusations, as I consign that which now im- 
peaches my motives. I have no desire for office, not even 
for the highest. The most exalted is but a prison, in which 
the incumbent daily receives his cold, heartless visitants, 
marks his weary hours, and is cut off from the practical en- 
joyment of all the blessings of genuine freedom. I am no 
candidate for any office in the gift of the people of these 
States, united or separated. I never wish, never expect to 
be. Pass this bill, tranquilize the country, restore confi- 
dence and affection in the Union, and I am willing to go 
home to Ashland, and renounce public service forever. I 
should there find, in its groves, under its shades, on its 
lawns, amid my flocks and herds, in the bosom of my family, 
sincerity and truth, attachment and fidelity, and gratitude, 
which I have not always found in the walks of public life. 
Yes, I have ambition ; but it is the ambition of being the 
humble instrument, in the hands of Providence, to reconcile 
a divided people, once more to revive concord and harmony 
in a distracted land, — the pleasing ambition of contemplat- 
ing the glorious spectacle of a free, united, prosperous, and 
fraternal people. 



' THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 

William Cullen Bryant. 

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, 
Of wailing winds and naked woods, and meadows brown 

and sear. 
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered leaves lie 

dead; 
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. 



THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 125 

The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the 

jay, 
And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the 
gloomy day. 

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately 

sprang and stood 
In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood ? 
Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers 
Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of 

ours. 
The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November 

rain, 
Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones again. 

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, 
And the briar-rose and the orchid died amid the summer 

glow; 
But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, 
And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty 

stood, 
Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the 

plague on men, 
And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, 

glade, and glen. 

As now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days 

will come, 
To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter 

home; 
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the 

trees are still, 
And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, 
The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late 

he bore, 
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no 

more. 

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, 
The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side: 
In the cold, moist earth we laid her when the forest cast the 

leaf, 
And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief; 



126 THE VENOMOUS BOWL. 

Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of 

ours, 
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. 



THE VENOMOUS BOWL. 
N. J. Clodfetter. 

Published by permission of the author. 

Ask not of the man that is seeking to tell, 
Of the woe of the cup, and the potion of hell, 
But go to the den where all of its stains, 
Are sought by the bibber to poison his brains. 

Oh! the venomous bowl, 

That destroys the soul, 
May we hasten the day, may we hasten the day, 
When all of this curse shall be banished away. 

There, see the worn tippler throw down his last cent, 
And sigh as he quaffs for the pennies he's spent; 
Then think of his family all tattered in rags, 
And wife broken-hearted so famished she begs. 

Oh! the venomous bowl, 

That destroys the soul, 
May we hasten the day, may we hasten the day, 
When all of this curse shall be banished away. 






Behold in your gaze 'round the silvery lamps, 

Sages, coxcombs, commingling with ragged old tramps, 

And every shrill echo that falls on the walls, 

Comes from lips steeped in "hell " and imbued with its galL 

Oh! the venomous bowl, 

That destroys the soul, 
May we hasten the day, may we hasten the day, 
When all of this curse shall be banished away. 

A son may be called to this damnable place, 
With innocence glowing all over his face, 
There a generous friend perchance he may meet, 
To a bumper or two his friendship will greet; 

Oh! the venomous bowl, 

That destroys the soul, 
May we hasten the day, may we hasten the day, 
When all of this curse shall be banished away. 



HAMLETS ADVICE TO A SON GOING TO TRAVEL. I27 

Just the first step of vice he has then taken up, 
And he yields to the glow of the treacherous cup, 
As he lingers around for the venomous draught, 
Till a dozen or more he has lavishly quaffed. 

Oh! the venomous bowl, 

That destroys the soul, 
May we hasten the day, may we hasten the day, 
When all of this curse shall be banished away. 

He is now o'er the gulf where inebriates fell, 
And ready to plunge in the fathomless hell, 
Where morals, and character, all noble fame, 
Precipitate down into billows of shame. 

Oh! the venomous bowl, 

That destroys the soul, 
May we hasten the day, may we hasten the day, 
When all of this curse shall be banished away. 

Next, visit the inebriate's home that's so dim, 
And trace all its darkness and gloom back to him 
Whose blighted avowals, in earlier youth, 
Were lit up with joy, and blended with truth. 

Oh! the venomous bowl, 

That destroys the soul, 
May we hasten the day, may we hasten the day, 
When all of this curse shall be banished away. 

But alas! all his vows he has since yielded up, 
For the wantonous wretch, and the cursed wine cup, 
And led his fair wife from expected delight, 
To forsake all that once lit her future so bright. 

Oh! the venomous bowl, 

That destroys the soul. 
May we hasten the day, may we hasten the day, 
When all of this curse shall be banished away. 



HAMLET'S ADVICE TO A SON GOING TO 
TRAVEL. 

Give thy thoughts no tongue 
Nor any unproportion'd thought his act. 
Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar. 
Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, 



128 THE SENATOR'S PLEDGE. 

Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel; 

But do not dull thy palm with entertainment 

Of each new-hatch'd, unfledged comrade. Beware 

Of entrance to a quarrel; but, being in, 

Bear 't that the opposed may beware of thee. 

Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice: 

Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment. 

Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, 

But not express'd in fancy ; rich, not gaudy, 

For the apparel oft proclaims the man; 

And they in France, of the best rank and station, 

Are most select and generous, chief in that. 

Neither a borrower, nor a lender be; 

For loan oft loses both itself and friend, 

And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. 

This above all — to thine own self be true : 

And it must follow, as the night the day, 

Thou canst not then be false to any man. 



THE SENATOR'S PLEDGE. 
Charles Sumner. 

The trust conferred on me is one of the most weighty 
which a citizen can receive. It concerns the grandest inter- 
ests of our own Commonwealth, and also of the Union in 
which we are an indissoluble link. Like every post of emi- 
nent duty, it is a post of eminent honor. A personal am- 
bition, such as I cannot confess, might be satisfied to possess 
it; but, when I think what it requires, I am obliged to say 
that its honors are all eclipsed by its duties. 

Your appointment finds me in a private station, with 
which I am entirely content. For the first time in my life 
I am called to political office. With none of the experience 
possessed by others, to smooth the way of labor, I might 
well hesitate. But I am cheered by the generous confidence 
which throughout a lengthened contest persevered in sus- 
taining me, and by the conviction, that, amid all seeming 
differences of party, the sentiments of which I am the 
known advocate, and which led to my original selection as 
candidate, are dear to the hearts of the people throughout this 
Commonwealth. I derive also a most grateful conscious- 
ness of personal independence from the circumstance, 



THE SENATORS PLEDGE. I2Q 

which I deem it frank and proper thus publicly to declare 
and place on record, that this office comes to me unsought 
and undesired. 

Acknowledging the right of my country to the service of 
her sons wherever she choses to place them, and with a 
heart full of gratitude that a sacred cause is permitted to 
triumph through me, I now accept the post of senator. 

I accept it as the servant of Massachusetts, mindful of the 
sentiments solemnly uttered by her successive legislatures, 
of the genius which inspires her history, and of the men, her 
perpetual pride and ornament, who breathed into her that 
breath of liberty which early made her an example to her 
sister States. In such a service, the way, though new to my 
footsteps, is illumined by lights which cannot be missed. 

I accept it as the servant of the Union, bound to study 
and maintain the interests of all parts of our country with 
equal patriotic care, to discountenance every effort to loosen 
any of those ties by which our fellowship of States is held in 
fraternal company, and to oppose all sectionalism, in whatso- 
ever form, — whether in unconstitutional efforts by the North 
to carry so great a boon as freedom into the slave States; 
in unconstitutional efforts by the South, aided by Northern 
allies, to carry the sectional evil of slavery into the free 
States; or in any efforts whatsoever to extend the sectional 
domination of slavery over the national government. With 
me the Union is twice blessed, — first, as powerful guardian 
of the repose and happiness of thirty-one States clasped by 
the endearing name of country ; and next, as model and 
beginning of that all-embracing federation of States, by 
which unity, peace, and concord will finally be organized 
among the nations. Nor do I believe it possible, whatever 
the delusion of the hour, that any part can be permanently 
lost from its well- compacted bulk. E Pluribus Unum is 
stamped upon the national coin, the national territory, and 
the national heart. Though composed of many parts united 
into one, the Union is separable only by a crash which shall 
destroy the whole. 

Entering now upon the public service, I venture to be- 
speak, for what I do or say, that candid judgment which I 
trust always to have for others, but which I am well aware 
the prejudices of party too rarely concede. I may fail in 
ability, but not in sincere effort to promote the general 
weal. In the conflict of opinion natural to the atmosphere 



130 THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. 

of liberal institutions, I may err ; but I trust never to for- 
get the prudence which should temper firmness, or the mod- 
esty which becomes the consciousness of right. If I decline 
to recognize as my guides the leading men of to-day, I 
shall feel safe while I follow the master principles which 
the Union was established to secure, leaning for support on 
the great triumvirate of American freedom, — Washington, 
Franklin, and Jefferson. And, since true politics are simply 
morals applied to public affairs, I shall find constant assist- 
ance from those everlasting rules of right and wrong, which 
are a law alike to individuals and communities. 



THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 

" Speak ! speak ! thou fearful guest ! 
Who, with thy hollow breast 
Still in rude armor drest, 

Comest to daunt me ! 
Wrapt not in Eastern balms, 
But with thy fleshless palms 
Stretched, as if asking alms, 

Why dost thou haunt me ? " 

Then, from those cavernous eyes 
Pale flashes seemed to rise, 
As when the Northern skies 

Gleam in December ; 
And, like the water's flow 
Under December's snow, 
Came a dull voice of woe 

From the heart's chamber. 

" I was a Viking old ! 

My deeds, though manifold, 

No Skald in song has told, 

No Saga taught thee ! 
Take heed, that in thy verse 
Thou dost the tale rehearse, 
Else dread a dead man's curse ! 

For this I sought thee. 



THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. 131 

" Far in the Northern land, 
By the wild Baltic's strand, 
I, with my childish hand, 

Tamed the ger-falcon : 
And, with my skates fast-bound, 
Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, 
That the poor whimpering hound 

Trembled to walk on. 

" Oft to his frozen lair 
Tracked I the grisly bear, 
While from my path the hare 

Fled like a shadow ; 
Oft through the forest dark, 
Followed the were-wolf 's bark, 
Until the soaring lark 

Sang from the meadow. 

" But when I older grew, 
Joining a corsair's crew, 
O'er the dark sea I flew 

With the marauders. 
Wild was the life we led ; 
Many the souls that sped, 
Many the hearts that bled, 

By our stern orders. 

" Many a wassail-bout 
Wore the long Winter out ; 
Often our midnight shout 

Set the cocks crowing, 
As we the Berserk's tale 
Measured in cups of ale, 
Draining the oaken pail, 

Filled to o'erflowing. 

" Once as I told in glee 
Tales of the stormy sea, 
Soft eyes did gaze on me, 

Burning yet tender ; 
And as the white stars shine 
On the dark Norway pine, 
On that dark heart of mine 

Fell their soft splendor. 



132 THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. 

"I wooed the blue-eyed maid, 
Yielding, yet half afraid, 
And in the forest's shade 

Our vows were plighted. 
Under its loosened vest 
Fluttered her little breast, 
Like birds within their nest 

By the hawk frighted. 

" Bright in her father's hall 
Shields gleamed upon the wall, 
Loud sang the minstrels all, 

Chanting his glory ; 
When of old Hildebrand 
I asked his daughter's hand, 
Mute did the minstrels stand 

To hear my story. 

" While the brown ale he quaffed, 
Loud then the champion laughed, 
And as the wind-gusts waft 

The sea-foam brightly, 
So the loud laugh of scorn, 
Out of those lips unshorn, 
From the deep drinking-horn 

Blew the foam lightly. 

" She was a Prince's child, 

I but a Viking wild, 

And though she blushed and smiled, 

I was discarded ! 
Should not the dove so white 
Follow the sea-mew's flight, 
Why did they leave that night 

Her nest unguarded ? 

" Scarce had I put to sea, 
Bearing the maid with me, — 
Fairest of all was she 

Among the Norsemen ! — 
When on the white sea-strand, 
Waving his armed hand, 
Saw we old Hildebrand, 

With twenty horsemen. 



THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. 133 

" Then launched they to the blast, 
Bent like a reed each mast, 
Yet we were gaining fast, 

When the wind failed us ; 
And with a sudden flaw 
Came round the gusty Skaw, 
So that our foe we saw 

Laugh as he hailed us. 

"And as to catch the gale 
Round veered the flapping sail, 
Death ! was the helmsman's hail 

Death without quarter ! 
Mid-ships with iron keel 
Struck we her ribs of steel ; 
Down her black hulk did reel 

Through the black water ! 

"As with his wings aslant, 
Sails the fierce cormorant, 
Seeking some rocky haunt, 

With his prey laden, 
So toward the open main, 
Beating to sea again, 
Through the wild hurricane, 

Bore I the maiden. 

" Three weeks we westward bore, 
And when the storm was o'er, 
Cloud-like we saw the shore 

Stretching to leaward ; 
There for my lady's bower 
Built I the lofty tower, 
Which, to this very hour, 

Stands looking seaward. 

" There lived we many years ; 
Time dried the maiden's tears ; 
She had forgot her fears, 

She was a mother ; 
Death closed her mild blue eyes, 
Under that tower she lies ; 
Ne'er shall the sun arise 

On such another ! 



134 THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 

" Still grew my bosom then, 
Still as a stagnant fen ! 
Hateful to me were men, 

The sunlight hateful ! 
In the vast forest here, 
Clad in my warlike gear, 
Fell I upon my spear, 

Oh, death was grateful ! 

" Thus, seamed with many scars, 
Bursting these prison bars, 
Up to its native stars 

My soul ascended ! 
There from the flowing bowl 
Deep drinks the warrior's soul, 
Skoal! to the Northland ! skoal! "* 

— Thus the tale ended. 



THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 
It was the schooner Hesperus, 
That sailed the wintry sea ; 
And the skipper had taken his little daughter, 
To bear him company. 

Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, 

Her cheeks like the dawn of day, 
And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, 

That ope in the month of May. 

The skipper he stood beside the helm, 

With his pipe in his mouth, 
And watched how the veering flaw did blow 

The smoke now west, now south. 

Then up and spake an old sailor, 

Had sailed the Spanish main, 
"I pray thee, put into yonder port, 

For I fear a hurricane. 

* In Scandinavia this is the customary salutation when drinking a 
health. I have slightly changed the orthography of the word, in order 
to preserve the correct pronunciation. 



THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. I35 

"Last night, the moon had a golden ring, 

And to-night no moon we see ! " 
The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe, 

And a scornful laugh laughed he. 

Colder and louder blew the wind, 

A gale from the northeast ; 
The snow fell hissing in the brine, 

And the billows frothed like yeast. 

Down came the storm, and smote amain, 

The vessel in its strength ; 
She shuddered and paused, like a frightened steed, 

Then leaped her cable's length. 

" Come hither ! come hither ! my little daughter, 

And do not tremble so ; 
For I can weather the roughest gale, 

That ever wind did blow." 

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat 

Against the stinging blast ; 
He cut a rope from a broken spar 

And bound her to the mast. 

" O father ! I hear the church-bells ring, 

O say, what may it be ? " 
"'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast ! " 

And he steered for the open sea. 

" O father ! I hear the sound of guns, 

O say, what may it be ? " 
"Some ship in distress that cannot live 

In such an angry sea ! " 

"O father ! I see a gleaming light, 

O say, what may it be ?" 
But the father answered never a word, 

A frozen corpse was he. 

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, 

With his face to the skies, 
The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow 

In his fixed and glassy eyes. 



136 THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed 

That saved she might be ; 
And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave, 

On the Lake of Galilee. 

And fast through the midnight dark and drear, 
Through the whistling sleet and snow, 

Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept 
Towards the reef of Norman's Woe. 

And ever the fitful gusts between 

A sound came from the land ; 
It was the sound of the trampling surf, 

On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. 

The breakers were right beneath her bows, 

She drifted a dreary wreck, 
And a whooping billow swept the crew 

Like icicles from her deck. 

She struck where the white and fleecy waves 

Looked soft as carded wool, 
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side 

Like the horns of an angry bull. 

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, 
With the masts went by the board ; 

Like a vessel of glass, she strove and sank. 
Ho ! ho ! the breakers roared ! 

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, 

A fisherman stood aghast, 
To see the form of a maiden fair, 

Lashed close to a drifting mast. 

The salt sea was frozen on her breast, 

The salt tears in her eyes ; 
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, 

On the billows fall and rise. 

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, 

In the midnight and the snow ! 
Christ save us all from a death like this, 

On the reef of Norman's Woe ! 



THE REIGN OF TERROR. 137 

THE REIGN OF TERROR. 
Lord Macaulay. 

Now began that strange period known by the name of the 
Reign of Terror. The Jacobins had prevailed. This was 
their hour and the power of darkness. The convention was 
subjugated and reduced to profound silence on the highest 
questions of state. The sovereignty passed to the Commit- 
tee of Public Safety. To the edicts framed by that com- 
mittee, the representative assembly did not venture to offer 
even the species of opposition which the ancient Parliament 
had frequently offered to the mandates of the ancient kings. 

Then came those days, when the most barbarous of all 
codes was administered by the most barbarous of all tribu- 
nals ; when no man could greet his neighbors, or say his 
prayers, or dress his hair, without danger of committing a 
capital crime ; when spies lurked in every corner ; when the 
guillotine was long and hard at work every morning ; when 
the jails were filled as close as the hold of a slave ship ; and 
the gutters ran foaming with blood into the Seine. 

No mercy was shown to sex or age. The number of 
young lads and of girls of seventeen who were murdered by 
that execrable government, is to be reckoned by hundreds. 
Babies, torn from the breast, were tossed from pike to pike 
along the Jacobin ranks. One champion of liberty had his 
pockets well stuffed with ears. Another swaggered about 
with the finger of a little child in his hat. A few months 
had sufficed to degrade France below the level of New Zea- 
land. 

It is absurd to say that any amount of public danger can 
justify a system like this. It is true that great emergencies 
call for activity and vigilance ; it is true that they justify 
severity which, in ordinary times, would deserve the name of 
cruelty. But indiscriminate severity can never, under any 
circumstances, be useful. It is plain that the whole efficacy 
of punishment depends on the care with which the guilty 
are distinguished. Punishment which strikes the guilty and 
the innocent promiscuously operates merely like a pesti- 
lence or a great convulsion of nature, and has no more ten- 
dency to prevent offenses, than the cholera, or an earth- 
quake, like that of Lisbon, would have. 

The great queen who so long held her own against foreign 



138 A RILEY ECHO. 

and domestic enemies, against temporal and spiritual arms ; 
the great Protector who governed with more than regal 
power, in despite both of royalists and republicans ; the 
great King who, with a beaten army and an exhausted 
treasury, defended his little dominions to the last against the 
united efforts of Russia, Austria, and France ; with what 
scorn would they have heard that it was impossible for 
them to strike a salutary terror into the disaffected, without 
sending school-boys and school-girls to death by cart loads 
and boat loads ! 

To behead people by scores, without caring whether they 
are guilty or innocent ; to wring money out of the rich by 
the help of jailers and executioners ; to rob the public 
creditor, and put him to death if he remonstrates ; to take 
loaves by force out of the bakers' shops ; to clothe and 
mount soldiers by seizing on one man's wool and linen, and 
on another man's horses and saddles, without compensation, 
is of all modes of governing the simplest and most obvious. 
Of its morality we, at present, say nothing. But, surely, it 
requires no capacity beyond that of a barbarian or a child. 

By means like those which we have described, the Com- 
mittee of Public Safety undoubtedly succeeded, for a short 
time, in enforcing profound submission, and in raising im- 
mense funds. But to enforce submission by butchery, and 
to raise funds by spoliation, is not statesmanship. The real 
statesman is he who, in troubled times, keeps down the tur- 
bulent without unnecessarily harassing the well-affected ; 
and who, when great pecuniary resources are needed, pro- 
vides for the public exigencies without violating the security 
of property and drying up the sources of future prosperity. 



A RILEY ECHO. 

When the crop is on the market and the cash is in your 

sock, 
And you hear the clink and jingle of the key turned in the 

lock, 
And the clinking of the " pennies " and the clanking of the 

" tens," 
And the groceryman is paid up and no more his bill he 

sen's; 



ARCHIE DEAN. 139 

O, it's then's the time a feller is a-feelin' at his best, 
When he rises from his supper, then downward pulls his 

vest; 
As he smokes his pipe in comfort and then goes and winds 

the clock, 
When the crop is on the market and the cash is in his sock. 

There's something kind o' cheerful-like about the farmer's 

eyes 
When he knows the summer's over and he doesn't have to 

rise 
About the time the daylight's a-peepin' thro' the gloom, 
And work until the moon's up 'mid the grain that's all in 

bloom; 
But instead he sorter calcalates he'll hook old " Buck " and 

" Jess " 
To his cutter in the evenin', and put on his Sunday dress; 
Then go a courtin' Lizer, with her apron and new frock, 
When the crop is on the market and the cash is in his sock. 

O, the huskin' and the spellin' bees — the winter's harmless 

fun; 
The raspin' of the fiddle when the dancin' is begun; 
The jingle of the sleigh bells, your best gal in the sled; 
The kissin' and the huggin' when the ole folks are in bed; 
The roastin' of the chestnuts, the neighbors droppin' in; 
The eatin' of the apples, drinkin' cider from a tin; 
O, it sets my heart a-prancin', like a struttin' turkey cock, 
When the crop is on the market and the cash is in the sock. 



ARCHIE DEAN. 
Gail Hamilton. 

Would you laugh, or would you cry ? 
Would you break your heart and die, 
If you had a dashing lover 
Like my handsome Archie Dean, 
And he should forget his wooing 
By the moon, the stars, the sun, 
To love me evermore, 
And should go to Kittie Carrol, 
Who has money, so they say — 



I4-0 ARCHIE DEAN. 

And with eyes love-filled as ever 
Win her heart, that's like a feather, 
Vowing all he had before ? 
Prithee, tell me, would you cry, 
And grow very sad and die ? 

Always, in the old romances 

That dear Archie read to me, 

Those that pleased my girlish fancy, 

There was always sure to be 

One sweet maiden with a lover 

Who was never, never true; 

And when they were widely parted, 

Then she died, poor, broken-hearted, 

And did break with grief at last, 

Like a lily in the blast — 

Say, would you, if you were me ? 

True, I do love Archie Dean, 
Love him, love him, oh ! how true; 
But see, my eyes are bright, 
And my lips and cheeks are red 
(Archie Dean put that in my head!) 
And I don't know what to do, 
Whether to lie down and weep 
Till the red is faded out, 
And my eyes are dull and dim, 
Maybe blind, and all for him 
(I could do it, I've no doubt). 
Or loop up my pretty hair 
With the brightest knots of ribbon, 
And the very sweetest roses, 
And go to the village fair, 
Where he'll be with Kittie Carrol, 
And will see me dance the wildest 
With some bonny lad that's there, 
Just to show how much I care. 

Archie Dean! Archie Dean! 

'Tis the sweetest name I know; 

It is writ on my heart, but o'er it now 

Is drifting the cold snow. 

Archie Dean! Archie Dean! 



I 



ARCHIE DEAN. 141 

There's a pain in my heart while I speak; 

I wonder if always the thought of your name 

Will make me so saddened and weak! 

Archie Dean! Archie Dean! 

I remember that you said 

Your name should be mine and I should be 

The happiest bride e'er wed. 

I little thought of a day like this, 

When I could wish I were dead. 

But there goes the clock, the hour is near 

When I must be off to the fair; 

I'll go and dance, and dance, and dance, 

With the bonny lads who are there, 

In my dress of blue, with crimson sash, 

Which he always liked to see. 

I'll whirl before him as fast as I can, 

I'll laugh and chatter — yes, that is my plan — 

And I know that before the morn 

He'll wish that Kittie Carrol had never been born, 

And that he could be sitting again 

Close by my side in the green meadow lane, 

Vowing his love in a tender strain. 

But when I see him coming, 

I'll turn my eyes with softest glance 

On somebody else — then off in the dance — 

And if he should happen to get the chance 

For saying how heartily sorry he is 

For having been false to me he loves true, 

I won't hear a word that he says, would you? 

What you'd better do, Jenny Marsh, 
Break your heart for Archie Dean? 
Jennie Marsh! Jennie Marsh! 

Not a bit. 
'Tis the very thing he's after. 
He would say to Kittie Carrol, 
With careless, mocking laughter, 
Here's a pretty little chick, 
Who has died for love of me, 

'Tis a pity. 
But what is a man to do 
When the girls beset him so? 
If he gives a nosegay here, 



142 ARCHIE DEAN. 

If he calls another dear, 
If he warbles to a third 

A love ditty, 
Why, the darling little innocents 
Take it all to heart. 

Alack-a-day! 
Ah! she was a pretty maiden, 
A little too fond-hearted, 
Eyes a little too love-laden, 
But, really, when we parted — 
Well, she died for love of me, 
Kittie Carrol. Don't you see 
You are giving him to Kittie 
Just as sure as sure can be. 
'Tis the way he takes to woo her, 
By slyly showing to her 
What a dashing, slashing beau is at her feet 
And of all the pretty pratings 
About a woman's deathless loving, 
And her ever-faithful proving, 
And her womanly devotion, 
I've a very wicked notion 
That to carry off the one 
That Mary here is sighing for, 
And Fanny there is dying for, 
Is more than half the happiness, 
And nearly all the fun. 
Now if I were a man, 
Jennie Marsh! Jennie Marsh! 
If I only were a man 

For a day — 
I'm a maiden, so I can't 
Always do just what I want, 
But if I were a man, I'd say, 
Archie Dean, go to thwider ! 
What's the use of sighs, I wonder, 
Your oaths and vows and mutterings 
Are awfully profane. 
Hie away to Kittie Carrol, 
Your loss is but a gain. 
Aren't there fishes still a-swimming 

Just as luscious every way 
As those that hissed and sputtered 



ARCHIE DEAN. 143 



In the saucepan yesterday? 
But, Jennie, charming Jennie, 

You're a tender little woman, 
And I expect you'll say that is 

So shockingly inhuman; 
And, besides, you'll never dare, 
You little witch, to swear! 
But, when you're at the fair, 
Don't flirt too far with bonny lads, 

Because, perhaps, you'll rue it; 
And do not dance too merrily, 

Because he may see through it; 
And don't put on an air as if 

You're mortally offended; 
You'll be a feather in his cap, 

And then your game is ended. 
And if, with Kittie on his arm, 

You meet him on the green, 
Don't agonize your pretty mouth 

With Mr. Arthur Dean; 
But every throb of pride or love 

Be sure to stifle, 
As if your intercourse with him 

Were but the merest trifle; 
And make believe with all your might 

You'd not care a feather 
For all the Carrols in the world, 

And Archie Dean together. 
Take this advice, and get him back, 

My darling, if you can; 
But if you can't, why, right-about, 

And take another man. 

What I did. 
I went to the fair with Charlie — 
With handsome Charlie Green, 
Who has loved me many a year, 
And vowed his loving with a tear — 
A tear of the heart, I mean. 
But I never gave a smile to him 
Until to-night, 
When full in sight 
Of Kittie Carrol and Archie Dean. 



144 ARCHIE DEAN. 

Now Archie knows that Charlie has 
A deal of money, and has lands, 
And his wealth is little to him 
Without my heart and hand. 
So I smiled on Charlie, 
And I danced with Charlie, 
When I knew that Archie's eyes 
Were fixed on me as in a trance. 
I once caught them in the dance, 
And I could have fallen at his feet, 

Dear Archie Dean! 
But there were Kittie Carrol and Charlie Green, 
And when Archie came to me, 
As I was sure he would — 
And with softest tone and glance — 
Do you think I dropped my eyes, 
With a glad surprise? 

No, no, indeed! 

That would not do. 
Straight I looked into his face, 
With no broken-hearted grace. 
Oh, he could not see my pain — 
And I told him he must wait 

A little while 
Till I had danced with Charlie Green; 

Then I cast a smile 
On Harry Hill and Walter Brown. 
Oh, the look he cast on me 
As his eyes fell sadly down! 
He said he something had to say, 
But I laughed and turned away, 

For my sight was growing dim, 
Saying, I would not forget 

That I was to dance with him. 
He did not go to Kittie Carrol, 
Who was sitting all alone, 
Watching us with flashing eyes; 
But he slowly turned away 
To a corner in the dark. 
There he waited patiently, 
And, he said, most wearily, 
For the dancing to be done; 
And, although my heart was aching, 



ARCHIE DEAN. 145 

And very nigh to breaking, 

It was quite a bit of fun 

Just to see him standing there 

Watching me. Oh, Archie Dean, 

What a picture of despair; 

Why not hie to Kittie Carrol? 

She has money, so they say, 
And has held it out for lovers 

Many and many a weary day. 
She is rather plain, I know — 
Crooked nose and reddish hair, 
And her years are more than yours. 
Archie Dean! Archie Dean! 
(He is not rich like Charlie Green.) 
What does love for beauty care? 
Hie away to Kittie Carrol; 
Ask her out to dance with you, 
Or she'll think that you are fickle 
And your vows of love untrue, 
And maybe you'll get the mitten: 
Then — ah, then — what will you do? 

Well, he sighed at me and I laughed at him 
As we danced away together. 
He pressed my hand, but I heeded not, 
And whirled off like a feather. 
He whispered something about the past, 
But I did not heed at all; 
For my heart was throbbing loud and fast, 
And the tears began to fall. 
He led me out beneath the stars, 
I told him it was in vain 
For him to vow — I had no faith 
To pledge with him again. 
His voice was sad and thrilling and deep, 
And my pride flew away, 
And left me to weep. 

And when he said he loved me most true, - 
And ever should love me, 
" Yes, love only you," he said, 
I could not help trusting Archie — 
Say, could you? 



I46 GERMAN CHARACTER. 

GERMAN CHARACTER. 
Arthur S. Hoyt. 

Two elements underlie all Teutonic character — the deep 
power of love and the grand power of will. The one is run 
in the intense national spirit of the race, in the sacredness 
of domestic ties, in the reverence for a Supreme Being. 
The other has been the fruitful germ of free acting and free 
thinking, of civil right and religious liberty, the force which, 
through willing hearts and plodding brains, has scaled the 
loftiest heights of speculation or fathomed the lowest depths 
of research. 

Have you ever read that poem of Arndt's, " What is the 
German's Fatherland ? " Arrogant French diplomacy little 
knew the storm it was gathering to burst upon its own head. 
It planned the disruption of a people, but inspired a song 
which bound it with cords the wildest martial fury could 
not snap. How all their later history breathes and pulsates 
with this unity of race. How the word " Fatherland " is 
twined about the very tendrils of the German heart! 

Why was Frederic called the " Hero of Rosbach " ? That 
was not a great victory. The well-regulated Prussian valor 
easily overcame a dunce of a general and his ill-disciplined 
army. It has been honored and crowned because it made a 
day memorable as Agincourt or Bannockburn. Hitherto 
Germans had fought Germans. T he defeat of one could 
not be called the honest pride of the other. Rosbach was 
the first field won from the Gallic race by a pure Teutonic 
army since the age of Charlemagne. It gave language to 
unuttered feelings, and distinctly proclaimed the reality of 
a German nation. 

The last decade has drawn the same character in a bolder 
hand. Six short weeks humbled the power of Austria and 
pointed the way to Prussian ascendency. No thrill of joy 
ran from the Baltic to the Alps. Stained and tattered ban- 
ners hung in the churches of Berlin ; but they told only the 
story of one blood and one language. The power of a Bis- 
marck had crushed forever the ambition of a Leopold ; but 
Germany kept an ominous silence, and only cast suspicious 
glances at the would-be autocrat of Europe. 

A handful of years and the scene has changed. A rumor 
floats on the heated air of a summer day that startles the 



THE FLIGHT FOR LIFE. 147 

quiet of a sleepy hamlet, and rises above the din of the 
busiest mart. It is the courier of war, telling with panting 
breath how Paris resouncFs with the cry of " On to Berlin," 
and how a French army is marching for the Rhine. The 
sluggish German blood quickens its flow, and the national 
heart throbs with a stronger life. Visions of desecrated 
homes and polluted altars rise unbidden, and the Father- 
land is bulwarked by a million men. " Empire of the Air " 
no longer, Germany becomes the " Empire of the Land," 
and vows to guard forever the ancient freedom of the Rhine. 



THE FLIGHT FOR LIFE. 
William Sawyer. 

An Emigrant's Reminiscence. 

Oh, hideous leagues of straining woods, 

Straining back from the sea ; 
Oh, woods of pine, and nothing but pine, 

Will they never have end for me ? 

The ceaseless line of the red, red pine, 

My very brain it sears ; 
And the roar of trees, like surging seas, 

Is it ever to haunt my ears ? 

Let me remember it all : 'Twas late — 

The burning end of day — 
The trees were all in a golden glow, 

As with the flame they would burn away. 

The joyful news to our clearing came, 

Came as the sun went down ; 
A ship from England at anchor lay 

In the bay of the nearest town. 

In that good ship my Alice had come — 

Alice, my dainty queen ! 
Sweet Alice, my own, my own so near — 

There was only the woods between ! 

Now, three days' journey we counted that, 
The days and nights were three ; 



14^ THE FLIGHT FOR LIFE. 

But for thirty days and thirty nights 
I had journeyed my love to see. 

Before an hour to the night had gone, 

Into the wood I went ; 
The pine tops yet were bright in the light, 

Though below it was all but spent. 

"The moon at ten and the dawn at four ! " 

For this I offered praise ; 
Though I knew the wood on the hither side, 

Knew each of its tortuous ways. 

The moon rose redder than any sun, 
Through the straight pines it rose ; 

But glittered on keener eyes than mine — 
On the eyes of deadliest foes ! 

To sudden peril my heart awoke — 

And yet it did not quail ; 
I had skirted Indians in their camp, 

And the fiends were upon my trail ! 

Three stealthy " Snakes " were upon my track, 

Supple and dusk and dread ; 
A thought of Alice, a prayer to God, 

And like wind on my course I sped. 

Only in flight, in weariest flight, 

Could I my safety find; 
But fast or slow, howe'er I might go, 

They followed me close behind. 

The night wore out and the moon went down, 

The sun rose in the sky ; 
But on and on came the stealthy foes, 

Who had made it my doom to die. 

With two to follow and one to sleep, 
They tracked me through the night ; 

But one could follow and two could sleep 
In the day's increasing light. 



THE FLIGHT FOR LIFE. I49 

So all day under the burning sky, 

All night beneath the stars, 
And on, when the moon through ranging pines 

Gleamed white as through prison-bars. 

With some to follow and some to halt, 

Their course they well might keep ; 
But I — oh, God, for a little rest, 

For a moment of blessed sleep ! 

Lost in the heart of the hideous wood, 

My desperate way I kept ; 
For why ! They would take me if I stayed, 

And murder me if I slept. 

But brain will yield and body will drop ; 

And next when sunset came, 
I shrieked delirious at the light, 

For I fancied the wood on flame ! 

I shrieked, I reeled ; then venomous eyes 

And dusky shapes were there ; 
And I felt the touch of gleaming steel, 

And a hand in my twisted hair. 

A cry, a struggle, and down I sank ; 

But sank not down alone — 
A shot had entered the Indian's heart, 

And his body bore down my own ! 

Yet an Indian gun that shot had fired — 

Most timely, Heaven knows ! 
For I had chanced on a friendly tribe, 

Who were watching my stealthy foes. 

And they who fired had kindliest hearts : 

They gave me nursing care ; 
And when that my brain knew aught again, 

Lo, my Alice, my own, was there ! 

Dear Alice ! But, oh, the straining woods, 

Straining back from the sea ; 
The woods of pine, and nothing but pine, 

They have never an end for me. 



150 THE BELLS. 

The ceaseless line of the red, red pine, 
My brain to madness sears ; 

And the roar of trees, like surging seas, 
Is a horror in my ears. 



THE BELLS. 

Edgar A. Poe= 

Hear the sledges with the bells, 
Silver bells! 
What a world of merriment their melody foretells! 
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, 

In the icy air of night! 
While the stars that oversprinkle 
All the heavens seem to twinkle 
With a crystalline delight; 
Keeping time, 
In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells 

From the bells, 
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. 

Hear the mellow wedding bells, 

Golden bells! 

What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! 

Through the balmy air of night, 

How they ring out their delight 

From the molten golden notes, 

And all in tune, 
What a liquid ditty floats 
To the turtle dove, that listens, while she gloats 
On the moon! 
Oh! from out the sounding cells, 
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells, 
How it swells! 
How it dwells 
On the future! — how it tells 
Of the rapture that impels 
To the swinging and the ringing 
Of the bells, 
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! 



THE BELLS. 151 

Hear the loud alarum bells, 
Brazen bells ! 
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells! 
In the startled ear of night 
How they scream out their affright! 
Too much horrified to speak, 
They can only shriek, shriek, 
Out of tune, 
In the clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, 
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire, 
Leaping higher, higher, higher, 
With a desperate desire, 
And a resolute endeavor 
Now — now to sit, or never, 
By the side of the pale-faced moon. 
Oh! the bells! 
What a tale their terror tells 
Of despair! 

How they clang, and clash, and roar! 
What a horrid outpour 
On the bosom of the palpitating air! 
Yet the ear it fully knows, 
By the twanging 
And the clanging, 
How the danger ebbs and flows; 
Yet the ear distinctly tells, 
In the jangling 
And the wrangling, 
How the danger sinks and swells, 
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells, 
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells! 

Hear the tolling of the bells, 
Iron bells! 
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels! 
In the silence of the night 
How we shiver with affright 
At the melancholy menace of their tone! 
For every sound that floats 
From the rust within their throats 
Is a groan. 



152 THE BRAKEMAN AT CHURCH. 

And the people — ah! the people! 
They that dwell up in the steeple, 

All alone, 
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, 

In that muffled monotone, 
Feel a glory in so rolling 

On the human heart a stone: 
They are neither man nor woman, 
They are neither brute nor human; 

They are ghouls; 
And their king it is who tolls 
And he rolls 
A paean from the bells! 
And his merry bosom swells 

With the paean of the bells! 
And he dances and he yells; 

Keeping time, 
In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
To the paean of the bells, 
Keeping time 
As he knells, 
In a happy Runic rhyme, 
To the rolling of the bells, 
To the tolling of the bells, 
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. 



THE BRAKEMAN AT CHURCH. 
From the " Burlington Hawkeye." 

On the road once more, with Lebanon fading away in the 
distance, the fat passenger drumming idly on the window 
pane, the cross passenger sound asleep, and the tall, thin 
passenger reading " Gen. Grant's Tour Around the World," 
and wondering why " Green's August Flower " should be 
printed above the doors of "A Buddhist Temple at Benares." 
To me comes the brakeman, and, seating himself on the arm 
of the seat, says : 

" I went to church yesterday." 

" Yes ? " I said, with that interested inflection that asks 
for more. " And what church did you attend ? " 

" Which do you guess ? " he asked. 

" Some union mission church," I hazarded. 



THE BRAKEMAN AT CHURCH. 153 

" No," he said, " I don't like to run on these branch 
roads very much. I don't often go to church, and when I 
do I want to run on the main line, where your run is regular 
and you go on schedule time and don't have to wait on con- 
nections. I don't like to run on a branch. Good enough, 
but I don't like it." 

" Episcopal ? " I guessed. 

" Limited express," he said; " all palace cars and $2 extra 
for seat, fast time and only stop at big stations. Nice line, 
but too exhaustive for a brakeman. All train men in uni- 
form, conductor's punch and lantern silver plated, and no 
train boys allowed. Then the passengers are allowed to 
talk back at the conductor, and it makes them too free and 
easy. No, I couldn't stand the palace cars. Rich road, 
though. Don't often hear of a receiver being appointed for 
that line. Some mighty nice people travel on it, too." 

" Universalist ? " I suggested. 

" Broad guage," said the brakeman ; " does too much 
complimentary business. Everybody travels on a pass. 
Conductor doesn't get a fare once in fifty miles. Stops at 
flag stations, and won't run into anything but a union depot. 
No smoking car on the train. Train orders are rather 
vague though, and the train men don't get along well with 
the passengers. No, I don't go to the Universalist, but I 
know some good men who run on that road." 

"Presbyterian ?" I asked. 

"Narrow gauge, eh ? " said the brakeman; "pretty track, 
straight as a rule ; tunnel right through a mountain rather 
than go around it ; spirit level grade ; passengers have to 
show their tickets before they get on the train. Mighty 
strict road, but the cars are a little narrow ; have to sit one 
in a seat, and no room in the aisle to dance. Then there is 
no stop-over ticket allowed ; got to go straight through to 
the station you're ticketed for, or you can't get on at all. 
When the car is full no extra coaches ; cars built at the shop 
to hold just so many and nobody else allowed on. But you 
don't often hear of an accident on that road. It's run right 
up to the rules." 

" Maybe you joined the Free Thinkers ? " I said. 

"Scrub road," said the brakeman; "dirt road bed and no 
ballast ; no time card and no train dispatcher. All trains 
run wild, and every engineer makes his own time, just as he 
pleases. Smoke if you want to ; kind of go-as-you-please 



154 THE BRAKEMAN AT CHURCH. 

road. Too many side tracks, and every switch wide open 
all the time, with the switchman sound asleep and the target 
lamp dead out. Get on as you please and get off when you 
want to. Don't have to show your tickets, and the con- 
ductor isn't expected to do anything but amuse the passen- 
gers. No, sir. I was offered a pass, but I don't like the 
line. I don't like to travel on a road that has no terminus. 
Do you know, sir, I asked a division superintendent where 
that road run to, and he said he hoped to die if he knew. 
I asked him if the general superintendent could tell me, and 
he said he didn't believe they had a general superintendent, 
and if they had, he didn't know anything .more about the 
road than the passengers. I asked him who he reported to 
and he said ' nobody.' I asked a conductor who he got his 
orders from, and he said he didn't take orders from any 
living man or dead ghost. And when I asked the engineer 
who he got his orders from, he said he'd like to see anybody 
give him orders ; he'd run the train to suit himself, or he'd 
run it into the ditch. Now you see, sir, I'm a railroad man, 
and I don't care to run on a road that has no time, makes 
no connections, runs nowhere, and has no superintendent. 
It may be all right, but I've railroaded too long to under- 
stand it." 

" Maybe you went to the Congregational church ? " 

"Popular road," said the brakeman ; " an old road, too — 
one of the very oldest in this country. Good road-bed and 
comfortable cars. Well-managed road, too ; directors don't 
interfere with division superintendents and train orders. 
Road's mighty popular, but it's pretty independent, too. 
Yes, didn't one of the division superintendents down East 
discontinue one of the oldest stations on this line two or 
three years ago ? But it's a mighty pleasant road to travel 
on. Always has such a pleasant class of passengers." 

" Did you try the Methodist? " 

"Now you're shouting ! " he said, with some enthusiasm. 
" Nice road, eh ? Fast time and plenty of passengers. 
Engines carry a power of steam, and don't you forget it ; 
steam-gauge shows a hundred and enough all the time. 
Lively road ; when the conductor shouts ' all aboard,' you 
can hear -him at the next station. Every train-light shines 
like a headlight. Stop-over checks are given on all through 
tickets ; passenger can drop off the train as often as he 
likes, do the station two or three days, and hop on the next 



HAMLET S SOLILOQUY ON HIS MOTHER S MARRIAGE. 155 

revival train that comes thundering along. Good, whole- 
souled, companionable conductors ; ain't a road in the 
country where the passengers feel more at home. No 
passes ; every passenger pays full traffic rates for his ticket. 
Wesley anhouse air brakes on all trains, too; pretty safe road, 
but I didn't ride over it yesterday." 

" Perhaps you tried the Baptist? " I guessed once more. 

"Ah, ha," said the brakeman, " she's a daisy, isn't she? 
River road ; beautiful curves ; sweep around anything to 
keep close to the river, but it's all steel rail and rock ballast, 
single track all the way, and not a side track from the round 
house to the terminus. Takes a heap of water to run it 
through, double tanks at every station, and there isn't an 
engine in the shops that can pull a pound or run a mile with 
less than two gauges. But it runs through a lovely country ; 
those river roads always do ; river on one side and hills on 
the other, and it's a steady climb up the grade all the way 
till the run ends where the fountain-head of the river begins. 
Yes, sir ; I'll take the river road every time for a lovely trip, 
sure connections, and a good time, and no prairie dust blow- 
ing in at the windows. And yesterday, when the conductor 
came around for the tickets with a little basket punch, I 
didn't ask him to pass me, but I paid my fare like a little 
man — twenty-five cents for an hour's run and a little con- 
cert by the passengers throwed in. I tell you, pilgrim, you 
take the river road when you want — " 

But just here the long whistle from the engine announced 
a station, and the brakeman hurried to the door, shouting : 

" Zionsville ! The train makes no stops between here 
and Indianapolis ! " 



HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY ON HIS MOTHER'S 
MARRIAGE. 

O, that this too, too solid flesh would melt, 

Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew ! 

Or that the everlasting had not fix'd 

His cannon 'gainst self-slaughter ! O God ! God ! 

How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable 

Seem to me all the uses of this world ! 

Fie on 't ! ah fie ! 'tis an unweeded garden, 

That grows to seed ; things rank and gross in nature 



156 MY MOTHER'S BIBLE. 

Possess it merely. That it should come to this ! 

But two months dead ! nay, not so much, not two : 

So excellent a king ; that was, to this, 

Hyperion to a satyr ; so loving to my mother, 

That he might not beteem the winds of heaven 

Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth ! 

Must I remember ? Why, she would hang on him, 

As if increase of appetite had grown 

By what it fed on. And yet, within a month, — 

Let me not think on 't — Frailty, thy name is woman !- 

A little month ; or ere those shoes were old 

With which she follow'd my poor father's body, 

Like Niobe, all tears : — why she, even she, — 

O heaven ! a beast, that wants discourse of reason, 

Would have mourn'd longer, — married with my uncle. 

My father's brother' ; but no more like my father, 

Than I to Hercules : within a month, 

Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears 

Had left the flushing in her galled eyes, 

She married. O most wicked speed, to post 

With such dexterity to incestuous sheets ! 

It is not nor it cannot come to good. 



MY MOTHER'S BIBLE. 
George P. Morris. 

This book is all that's left me now ! 

Tears will unbidden start, — 
With faltering lip and throbbing brow, 

I press it to my heart. 
For many generations past, 

Here is our family tree : 
My mother's hand this Bible clasped ; 

She, dying, gave it me. 

Ah ! well do I remember those 

Whose names these records bear, 
Who round the hearthstone used to close 

After the evening prayer, 
And speak of what these pages said, 

In tones my heart would thrill ! 
Though they are with the silent dead, 

Here are they living still I 



SONG OF THE SHIRT. 157 

My father read this holy book 

To brothers, sisters, dear ; 
How calm was my poor mother's look, 

Who leaned God's word to hear. 
Her angel-face — I see it yet ! 

What thronging memories come ! 
Again that little group is met 

Within the halls of home ! 

Thou truest friend man ever knew, 

Thy constancy I've tried ; 
Where all were false I found thee true, 

My counselor and guide. 
The mines of earth no treasure give 

That could this volume buy : 
In teaching me the way to live, 

It taught me how to die. 



SONG OF THE SHIRT. 
Thomas Hood. 

With fingers weary and worn, 

With eyelids heavy and red, 
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 

Plying her needle and thread, — 
Stitch! stitch! stitch! 
In poverty, hunger, and dirt, 

And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch, 
She sang the "Song of the Shirt." 

"Work! work! work! 
While the cock is crowing aloof! 

And work — work — work, 
Till the stars shine through the roof! 
It's oh ! to be a slave 

Along with the barbarous Turk, 
Where woman has never a soul to save, 
If this is Christian work! 

" Work — work — work — 
Till the brain begins to swim, 

Work — work — work, 
Till the eyes are heavy and dim! 



158 SONG OF THE SHIRT. 

Seam, and gusset, and band, 
Band, and gusset, and seam, 
Till over the buttons I fall asleep, 
And sew them on in a dream! 

" Oh! men, with sisters dear! 

Oh! men with mothers and wives! 
It is not linen you're wearing out, 

But human creatures' lives! 
Stitch — stitch — stitch, 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt, 
Sewing at once, with a double thread, 

A shroud as well as a shirt. 

" But why do I talk of death, 

That phantom of grisly bone? 
I hardly fear his terrible shape, 

It seems so like my own — 

It seems so like my own, 

Because of the fasts I keep. 
O God! that bread should be so dear, 

And flesh and blood so cheap! 

" Work — work — work! 
My labor never flags; 
And what are its wages? A bed of straw, 

A crust of bread, — and rags, — 
That shattered roof — and this naked floor — 

A table — a broken chair — 
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank 

For sometimes falling there! 

" Work — work — work! 
From weary chime to chime! 
Work — work — work, 
As prisoners work for crime! 
Band, and gusset, and seam, 
Seam, and gusset, and band, 
Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, 
As well as the weary hand. 

" Work — work — work! 
In the dull December light, 



CLASSICAL STUDY. 159 

And work — work — work 
When the weather is warm and bright — 
While undereath the eaves 

The brooding swallows cling, 
As if to show me their sunny backs, 

And twit me with the spring. 

" Oh! but to breathe the breath 

Of the cowslip and primrose sweet — 
With the sky above my head 

And the grass beneath my feet; 
For only one sweet hour 

To feel as I used to feel, 
Before I knew the woes of want, 

And the walk that costs a meal! 

"Oh! but for one short hour! 

A respite, however brief! 
No blessed leisure for love or hope, 

But only time for grief! 
A little weeping would ease my heart, 

But in their briny bed 
My tears must stop, for every drop 

Hinders needle and thread!" 

With fingers weary and worn, 

With eyelids heavy and red, 
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 

Plying her needle and thread — 
Stitch! stitch! stitch! 

In poverty, hunger and dirt, 
And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch — 
Would that its tone could reach the rich! — 

She sung this "Song of the Shirt." 



CLASSICAL STUDY. 
Henry A. Frink. 

The power to think, the power to speak, and the power to 
lead, are essential to success in public life ; and whatever 
contributes to these is of utility to the public man. It is 
our purpose to show that such is the utility of classical 
study. 



l6o CLASSICAL STUDY. 

"The one condition," says Sir William Hamilton, " under 
which all powers are developed is exercise." When the 
Egyptian palm sends up its first shoot, weights are laid upon 
it. The stalk, thwarted in its upward growth, spreads out 
its stem, and increases in bulk until strong enough to resist 
the opposing force. Years afterward a tall, wide-spreading 
tree throws out its cooling branches to give rest and shade 
to the weary traveler, that, but for the direction thus given 
to its growth, would have been a branchless stalk. As it is 
not the nourishment of the soil that shapes, strengthens, and 
solidifies the slender stalk into a stately tree, neither is it 
information, but mental discipline, that develops force of 
intellect. Here classical study is useful. Is the mind slow 
to discriminate ? The classics give edge to its dulness. Is 
comparison feeble ? Where can more constant and strength- 
ening exercise be found than in translation ? Is memory in- 
clined to lag ? Ever spurred to its highest activity to meet 
constant demands upon its resources, it becomes the most 
nimble and ready of servitors. Is imagination fettered 
and groveling ? How elevated and refined, if not by ac- 
quaintance with the most brilliant imagery, radiant with 
beauty ? Is there no power of concentration, no method to 
the operation of the mind ? Bend the mental energies to 
the steady, systematic work of interpretation, and the ideas 
that are now like a whirl of sparks will become the bright, 
burning flame of organized thought. The study of classics 
trains the mind to act efficiently in the sphere of probabili- 
ties ; to weigh, to compare, to analyze evidence not definite 
and axiomatic, but variable and conditional. 

For over four centuries the public men of England have 
been remarkable for classic culture ; and has any country 
been gifted with more able and brilliant statesmen ? If the 
practical sense of Washington gained our liberties, the 
trained and cultured mind of Hamilton preserved them. 
Had not Hamilton in the Cabinet made permanent the 
victories of the field, history would have given Washington 
rank but little above Wallace, Bolivar, or Toussaint L'Ouver- 
ture. Do we forget that the uncultured eloquence of Otis 
and Patrick Henry gave the signal call to freedom ? No ; 
but we remember it was men of classical training, like 
Adams, Hancock, Jay, and Jefferson, that, through all the 
gathering difficulties of eight long years, thought out a way 
to independence. Compare the waning glory of Clay and 



THE DIFFICULTY OF RHYMING. l6l 

the enduring fame of the classic Webster. Clay by his 
native oratory moved men as the tempest sways the moun- 
tain ash. But now the "silver tongue " is hushed, and the 
" electric look " and " appealing gesture " speak no more ; 
what remains for the future to associate with his name ? 
" I still live," were the dying words of Webster. Words of 
prophecy that will gather meaning with the generations to 
come. Words spoken in another sense, yet expressive of 
the element of duration in all his life-long efforts as jurist, 
orator, and statesman. 



THE DIFFICULTY OF RHYMING. 
Anonymous. 

We parted by the gate in June, 

That soft and balmy month, 
Beneath the sweetly-beaming moon, 

And ( wonth — hunth — sunth — bunth — I can't 
find a rhyme to month). 

Years were to pass ere we should meet. 

A wide and yawning gulf 
Divides me from my love so sweet, 

While (ulf — sulf — dulf — mulf — stuck again ; I 
can't get any rhyme to gulf. I'm in a gulf myself). 
Oh, how I dreaded in my soul 

To part from my sweet nymph, 
While years should their long seasons roll 

Before (hymph — dymph — symph — I guess I'll 
have to let it go at that). 

Beneath my fortune's stern decree 

My lonely spirits sunk, 
For I a weary soul should be, 

And a (hunk — dunk — runk — sk — That will 
never do in the world). 

She buried her dear lovely face 

Within her azure scarf, 
She knew I'd take the wretchedness, 

As well as (parf — sarf — darf — harf-and-harf^ 
That wont answer either). 

Oh, I had loved her many years, 

I loved her for herself ; 



l62 THE DYING GLADIATOR. 

I loved her for her tender tears, 

And also for her (welf — nelf — helf — pelf — no, 
no ; not for her pelf). 

I took between my hands her head, 

How sweet her lips did pouch ! 
I kissed her lovingly and said — 

(Bouch — mouch — louch — ouch — not a bit of it 
did I say ouch ! ) 

I sorrowfully wrung her hand, 

My tears they did escape, 
My sorrow I could not command, 

And I was but a (sape — dape — fape — ape ; well, 
perhaps I did feel like an ape). 

I gave to her a fond adieu, 

Sweet pupil of love's school, 
I told her I would e'er be true, 

And always be a (dool — sool — mool — fool ; since 
I come to think of it, I was a fool, for she fell in love with 
another fellow before I was gone a month). 



THE DYING GLADIATOR. 
Lord Byron. 

The seal is set. Now welcome, thou dread power ! 

Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which here 
Walk'st in the shadow of the midnight hour 

With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear ; 

Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear 
Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene 

Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear, 
That we become a part of what has been, 
And grow unto the spot, all-seeing, but unseen. 

And here the buzz of eager nations ran, 

In murmured pity, or loud-roared applause, 

As man was slaughtered by his fellow-man. 

And wherefore slaughtered ? wherefore, but because 
Such were the bloody circus' genial laws, 

And the imperial pleasure. Wherefore not ? 
What matters where we fall to fill the maws 

Of worms — on battle-plains or listed spot ? 
Both are but theaters where the chief actors rot. 



THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 163 

I see before me the gladiator lie : 

He leans upon his hand ; his manly brow 
Consents to death, but conquers agony, 

And his drooped head sinks gradually low ; 

And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow 
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, 

Like the first of a thunder-shower ; and now 
The arena swims around him ; he is gone, 
Ere ceased the inhuman shout"which hailed the wretch 
who won. 

He heard it, but he heeded not ; his eyes 
Were with his heart, and that was far away : 

He recked not of the life he lost, nor prize ; 
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, 
There were his young barbarians all at play, 

There was their Dacian mother — he, their sire, 
Butchered to make a Roman holiday. 

All this rushed with his blood. Shall he expire, 
And unavenged ? Arise, ye Goths, and glut your ire ! 



THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 
John Pierpont. 

The Pilgrim Fathers — where are they ? 

The waves that brought them o'er 
Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray, 

As they break along the shore ; 
Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day, 

When the Mayflower moored below, 
When the sea around was black with storms, 

And white the shore with snow. 

The mists, that wrapped the Pilgrim's sleep, 

Still brood upon the tide ; 
And the rocks yet keep their watch by the deep, 

To stay its waves of pride, 
But the snow-white sail, that he gave to the gale, 

When the heavens looked dark, is gone ; 
As an angel's wing, through an opening cloud, 

Is seen, and then withdrawn. • 



164 THE HUNTER'S VISION. 

The Pilgrim exile — sainted name ! — 

The hill, whose icy brow- 
Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame, 

In the morning's flame burns now. 
And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night 

On the hill-side and the sea, 
Still lies where he laid his houseless head ; 

But the Pilgrim — where is he ? 

The Pilgrim Fathers are at rest ; 

When summer 's throned on high, 
And the world's warm breast is in verdure dressed, 

Go, stand on the hill where they lie. 
The earliest ray of the golden day 

On that hallowed spot is cast ; 
And the evening sun, as he leaves the world, 

Looks kindly on that spot last. 

The Pilgrim spirit has not fled : 

It walks in noon's broad light ; 
And it watches the bed of the glorious dead, 

With the holy stars, by night. 
It watches the bed of the brave who have bled, 

And shall guard this ice-bound shore, 
Till the waves of the bay, where the Mayflower lay, 

Shall foam and freeze no more. 



THE HUNTER'S VISION. 
William Cullen Bryant. 

Upon a rock that, high and sheer, 
Rose from the mountain's breast, 

A weary hunter of the deer 
Had sat him down to rest, 

And bared, to the soft summer air, 

His hot red brow and sweaty hair. 

All dim in haze the mountains lay, 
With dimmer vales between; 

And rivers glimmered on their way, 
By forests, faintly seen; 



THE HUNTER'S VISION. 165 

While ever rose a murmuring sound, 
From brooks below and bees around. 

He listened, till he seemed to hear 

A strain, so soft and low, 
That whether ia the mind or ear 

The listener scarce might know. 
With such a tone, so sweet and mild, 
The watching mother lulls her child. 

Thou weary huntsman, thus it said, 

Thou faint with toil and heat, 
The pleasant land of rest is spread 

Before thy very feet, 
And those whom thou wouldst gladly see 
Are waiting there to welcome thee. 

He looked, and 'twixt the earth and sky, 

Amid the noontide haze, 
A shadowy region met his eye, 

And grew beneath his gaze, 
As if the vapors of the air 
Had gathered into shapes so fair. 

Groves freshened as he looked, and flowers 

Showed bright on rocky bank, 
And fountains welled beneath the bowers, 

Where deer and pheasant drank. 
He saw the glittering streams, he heard 
The rustling bough and twittering bird. 

And friends — the dead — in boyhood dear, 

There lived and walked again, 
And there was one who many a year 

Within her grave had lain, 
A fair young girl, the hamlet's pride — 
His heart was breaking when she died. 

Bounding, as was her wont, she came 

Right toward his resting-place, 
And stretched her hand and called his name 

With that sweet smiling face. 
Forward, with fixed and eager eyes, 

The hunter leaned in act to rise. 



166 the pilgrim's vision. 

Forward he leaned, and headlong down 
Plunged from that craggy wall, 

He saw the rocks, steep, stern, and brown, 
An instant in his fall ; 

A frightful instant — and no more, 

The dream and life at once were o'er. 



THE PILGRIM'S VISION. 
Oliver Wendell Holmes. 

In the hour of twilight shadows 

The Puritan looked out : 
He thought of the " bloudy Salvages" 

That lurked all around about, 
Of Wituwamet's pictured knife 

And Pecksuot's whooping shout ; 
For the baby's limbs were feeble, 

Though his father's arms were stout. 

His home was a freezing cabin 

Too bare for the hungry rat, 
Its roof was thatched with ragged grass 

And bald enough of that ; 
The hole that served for casement 

Was glazed with an ancient hat ; 
And the ice was gently thawing 

From the log whereon he sat. 

Along the dreary landscape 

His eyes went to and fro, 
The trees all clad in icicles, 

The streams that did not flow ; 
A sudden thought flashed o'er him, — 

A dream of long ago, — 
He smote his leathern jerkin 

And murmured " Even so ! " 

" Come hither, God-be-glorified. 

And sit upon my knee, 
Behold the dream unfolding, 

Whereof I spake to thee 



THE PILGRIM'S VISION. 167 

By the winter's hearth in Leyden 

And on the stormy sea ; 
True is the dream's beginning, — 

So may its ending be ! 

" I saw in the naked forest 

Our scattered remnant cast, 
A screen of shivering branches 

Between them and the blast ; 
The snow was falling round them, 

The dying fell as fast ; 
I looked to see them perish, 

When lo, the vision passed. 

"Again mine eyes were opened ; 

The feeble had waxed strong, 
The babes had grown to sturdy men, 

The remnant was a throng ; 
By shadowed lake and winding stream 

And all the shores along, 
The howling demons quaked to hear 

The Christian's godly song. 

" They slept, — the village fathers, — 

By river, lake, and shore, 
When far adown the steep of Time 

The vision rose once more ; 
I saw along the winter snow 

A spectral column pour, 
And high above their broken ranks 

A tattered flag they bore. 

" Their leader rode before them, 

Of bearing calm and high, 
The light of heaven's own kindling 

Throned in his awful eye ; 
These were a Nation's champions 

Her dread appeal to try ; 
God for the right ! I faltered, 

And lo, the train passed by. 

" Once more ; — the strife is ended, 
The solemn issue tried, 



168 the pilgrim's vision. 

The Lord of Hosts, his mighty arm 
Has helped our Israel's side ; 

Gray stone and grassy hillock 
Tell where our martyrs died, 

But peaceful smiles the harvest, 
And stainless flows the tide. 

"A crash, — as when some swollen cloud 

Cracks o'er the tangled trees ! 
With side to side, and spar to spar, 

Whose smoking decks are these ? 
I know Saint George's blood-red cross, 

Thou Mistress of the Seas, — 
But what is she, whose streaming bars 

Roll out before the breeze ? 

"Ah, well her iron ribs are knit, 

Whose thunders strive to quell 
The bellowing throats, the blazing lips, 

That pealed the Armada's knell ! 
The mist was cleared, — a wreath of stars 

Rose o'er the crimsoned swell, 
And, wavering from its haughty peak, 

The cross of England fell! 

" O trembling Faith ! though dark the morn, 

A heavenly torch is thine ; 
While feebler races melt away, 

And paler orbs decline, 
Still shall the fiery pillar's ray 

Along thy pathway shine, 
To light the chosen tribe that sought 

This Western Palestine ! 

" I see the living tide roll on ; 

It crowns with flaming towers 
The icy capes of Labrador, 

The Spaniard's 'land of flowers'! 
It streams beyond the splintered ridge 

That parts the Northern showers ; 
From eastern rock to sunset wave 

The Continent is ours I " 



BOOKS. 169 

He ceased, — the grim old Puritan, — 

Then softly bent to cheer 
The Pilgrim-child, whose wasting face 

Was meekly turned to hear ; 
And drew his toil-worn sleeve across, 

To brush the manly tear 
From cheeks that never changed in woe, 

And never blanched in fear. 

The weary pilgrim slumbers, 

His resting-place unknown ; 
His hands were crossed, his lids were closed, 

The dust was o'er him strown ; 
The drifting soil, the moldering leaf, 

Along the sod were blown ; 
His mound has melted into earth, 

His memory lives alone. 

So let it live unfading, 

The memory of the dead, 
Long as the pale anemone 

Springs where their tears were shed, 
Or, raining in the summer's wind 

In flakes of burning red, 
The wild rose sprinkles with its leaves 

The turf where once they bled ! 

Yea, when the frowning bulwarks 

That guard this holy strand 
Have sunk beneath the trampling surge 

In beds of sparkling sand, 
While in the waste of ocean 

One hoary rock shall stand, 
Be this its latest legend, — 

Here was the pilgrim's land ! 



BOOKS. 
E. P. Whipple. 

There was to be a stern death-grapple between the heavy 
arm and the ethereal thought ; between that which was and 
that which ought to be ; for there was a great spirit abroad, 
which dungeons could not confine nor oceans check. It 



170 THE AMERICAN FLAG. 

was a spirit whose path lay through the great region of 
ideas ; whose dominion was over the mind. 

From the hour of the invention of printing, books, and 
not kings, were to rule the world. Weapons forged in the 
mind, keen-edged, and brighter than a sunbeam, were to 
supplant the sword and battle-ax. Books ! light-houses 
built on the sea of time ! Books ! by whose sorcery the 
whole pageantry of the world's history moves in solemn 
procession before our eyes. From their pages great souls 
look down in all their grandeur, undimmed by the faults 
and follies of earthly existence, consecrated by time. In 
that world "no divinity hedges a king"; no accident of 
rank ennobles a dunce or shields a knave. Reason is con- 
fined within none of the limits which trammel it in life. 
There, things are called by their right names. Our lips give 
not the lie to our hearts. We bend the knee only to the 
great and good ; we despise only the despicable ; honor 
only the honorable. 

In the world of books we can select companions from 
among the most richly gifted of the sons of God. When 
everything else fails ; when the world of forms and shows 
appears a two-edged lie, which seems but is not ; when all 
our earth-clinging hopes melt into nothingness, we are still 
not without friends. In their immortal countenances we 
see no change. They dignify low fortune and humble life 
with their kingly presence, and people solitude with shapes 
more glorious than ever glistened in court or palace. 

Well might Milton exclaim in that impassioned speech for 
the "Liberty of Unlicensed Printing": "Who kills a man 
kills a reasoning creature — God's image ; but who destroys 
a good book kills reason itself." Many a man lives a bur- 
den upon the earth ; but a good book is the precious life- 
blood of a master spirit embalmed and treasured up on pur- 
pose for a life beyond life. 



THE AMERICAN FLAG. 
Joseph Rodman Drake. 

When Freedom, from her mountain height 
Unfurl'd her standard to the air, 

She tore the azure robe of night, 
And set the stars of glory there ! 



THE AMERICAN FLAG. 171 

She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 
The milky baldric of the skies, 
And striped its pure celestial white 
With streakings of the morning light. 
Then, from his mansion in the sun, 
She call'd her eagle bearer down, 
And gave into his mighty hand 
The symbol of her chosen land ! 

Majestic monarch of the cloud ! 

Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, 
To hear the tempest-trumpings loud, 
And see the lightning lances driven, 

When strive the warriors of the storm, 
And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven, — 
Child of the Sun ! to thee 'tis given 

To guard the banner of the free, 
To hover in the sulphur smoke, 
To ward away the battle-stroke, 

And bid its blendings shine afar, 

Like rainbows on the cloud of war, 
The harbingers of victory ! 

Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly, 
The sign of hope and triumph high ! 
When speaks the signal-trumpet tone, 
And the long line comes gleaming on, 
Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, 
Has dimm'd the glistening bayonet, 
Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn 
To where thy sky-born glories burn, 
And as his springing steps advance, 
Catch war and vengeance from the glance. 
And when the cannon-mouthings loud 
Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud, 
And gory sabers rise and fall 
Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall, 
Then shall thy meteor glances glow, 

And cowering foes shall shrink beneath 
Each gallant arm that strikes below 

That lovely messenger of death. 

Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave 
Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave ; 



172 oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud? 

When death, careering on the gale, 
Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, 
And frighted waves rush wildly back 
Before the broadside's reeling rack, 
Each dying wanderer of the sea 
Shall look at once to heaven and thee, 
And smile to see thy splendors fly 
In triumph o'er his closing eye. 

Flag of the free heart's hope and home, 

By angel hands to valor given, 
Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, 

And all thy hues were born in heaven. 
Forever float that standard sheet, 

Where breathes the foe but falls before us, 
With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, 

And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us. 



OH! WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL 

BE PROUD? 

Anonymous. 

Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud? 
Like a swift, fleeting meteor, a fast flying cloud, 
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, 
Man passes from life to his rest in the grave. 

The leaves of the oak and the willows shall fade, 
Be scattered around and together be laid; 
And the young and the old, and the low and the high, 
Shall moider to dust and together shall lie. 

The infant a mother attended and loved, 
The mother that infant's affection who proved; 
The husband that mother and infant who blessed, 
Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest. 

The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye, 
Shone beauty and pleasure — her triumphs are by; 
And the memory of those who loved her and praised, 
Are alike from the minds of the living erased. 



OH ! WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD? 173 

The hand of the king that the scepter hath borne; 
The brow of the priest that the miter hath worn; 
The eye of the sage and the heart of the brave, 
Are hidden and lost in the depth of the grave. 

The peasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap; 
The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up the steep; 
The beggar, who wandered in search of his bread, 
Have faded away like the grass that we tread. 

The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven, 
The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven, 
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, 
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust. 

So the multitude goes, like the flowers or the weed 
That withers away to let others succeed; 
So the multitude comes, even those we behold, 
To repeat every tale that has often been told. 

For we are the same our fathers have been; 
We see the same sights our fathers have seen — 
We drink the same stream and view the same sun, 
And run the same course our fathers have run. 

The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think; 
From the death we are shrinking our fathers would shrink, 
To the life we are clinging they also would cling; 
But it speeds for us all, like a bird on the wing. 

They loved, but the story we cannot unfold; 
They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold; 
They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers will come; 
They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb. 

They died, aye! they died: and we things that are now, 

Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow, 

Who make in their dwelling a transient abode, 

Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road. 

Yea ! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain, 
We mingle together in sunshine and rain; 
And the smiles and the tears, the song and the dirge, 
Still follow each other, like surge upon surge. 



174 THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO. 

'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath; 
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, 
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud — 
Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud? 



THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO. 
Victor Hugo. 

It had rained all night. Water lay here and there in the 
hollows of the plain, as in basins. At some points the wheels 
sank to the axles. The horses' girths dripped with liquid 
mud. The affair opened late. The plan of the battle which 
had been conceived was indeed admirable. Ney drew his 
sword, placed himself at the head, and the immense squad- 
rons began to move. Then was seen a fearful sight. Noth- 
ing like it had been seen since the taking of the grand 
redoubt at La Moscana, by the heavy cavalry. Murat was 
not there; but Ney was there. It seemed as if this mass 
had become a monster, and had but a single mind. Each 
squadron undulated and swelled like the ring of a polyp. 
They could be seen through the thick smoke as it was broken 
here and there. It was one pell-mell of casques, cries, sa- 
bers ; a furious bounding of horses among the cannon; a 
terrible, disciplined tumult. Something like this vision ap- 
peared in the old Orphic Epics which tell' of" certain antique 
hippanthropes, those Titans, with human faces and chests 
like horses, whose gallop scaled Olympus, horrible, invul- 
nerable, sublime — at once gods and beasts. 

All at once, at the left of the English, and on the French 
right, the head of the column of' cuirassiers reared with 
frightful clamor, and there appeared three thousand faces 
with gray mustaches, crying/' Vive V Empereur!" Unman- 
ageable, full of fury, and bent on extermination of the squares 
and cannon, the cuirassiers saw between them and the Eng- 
lish, a ditch — a grave ! It was the sunken road of Ohain. 
It was a frightful moment. There' was a ravine, unlooked 
for, yawning at the very feet of the horses, two fathoms deep 
between its double slope. The second rank pushed in the 
first. The horses reared; threw themselves over; fell upon 
their backs; struggled with their feet in the air, piling up 
and overturning their riders. Without power to retreat, the 
whole column was nothing but a projectile. The force 



TO THE FUTURE. 175 

acquired to crush the English crushed the French. The 
inexorable ravine could not yield until it was filled with 
riders and horses rolled in together, grinding one another, 
making common flesh in this dreadful gulf; and when this 
grave was full of living men, the rest marched over and 
passed on. 

Was it possible that Napoleon should win the battle of 
Waterloo? We answer, No! Why? Because of Welling- 
ton? Because of Bliicher? No. Because of God! For 
Bonaparte to conquer at Waterloo was not in the law of the 
nineteenth century. It was time that this vast man should 
fall. He had been impeached before the Infinite! He had 
vexed God! Waterloo was not a battle. It was the change 
of front of the Universe. 



TO THE FUTURE. 

James Russell Lowell. 

O, Land of Promise! from what Pisgah's height 
Can I behold thy stretch of peaceful bowers? 
Thy golden harvests flowing out of sight, 

Thy nestled homes and sun-illumined towers? 
Gazing upon the sunset's high-heaped gold, 

Its crags of opal and of crysolite, 
Its deeps on deeps of glory that unfold 
Still brightening abysses, 
And blazing precipices, 
Whence but a scanty leap it seems to heaven, 

Sometimes a glimpse is given, 
Of thy more gorgeous realm, thy more unstinted blisses. 

O, Land of Quiet! to thy shore the surf 

Of the perturbed Present rolls and sleeps; 
Our storms breathe soft as June upon thy turf 
And lure out blossoms; to thy bosom leaps, 
As to a mother's, the o'er wearied heart, 
Hearing far off and dim the toiling mart, 

The hurrying feet, the curses without number, 
And, circled with the glow Elysian, 
Of thine exulting vision, 
Out of its very cares wooes charms for peace and slumber. 



176 TO THE FUTURE. 

To thee the Earth lifts up her fettered hands 

And cries for vengeance; with a pitying smile 
Thou blessest her, and she forgets her bands, 

And her old woe-worn face a little while 
Grows young and noble; unto thee the Oppressor 
Looks, and is dumb with awe; 
The eternal law 
Which makes the crime its own blindfold redresser, 
Shadows his heart with perilous foreboding, 
And he can see the grim-eyed Doom 
From out the trembling gloom 
Its silent-footed steeds toward his palace goading. 

What promises hast thou for Poet's eyes, 

Aweary of the turmoil and the wrong! 
To all their hopes what over-joyed replies! 

What undreamed ecstasies for blissful song! 
Thy happy plains no war-trump's brawling clangor 

Disturbs, and fools the poor to hate the poor; 
The humble glares not on the high with anger; 

Love leaves no grudge at less, no greed for more; 
In vain strives Self the godlike sense to smother; 
From the soul's deeps 
It throbs and leaps; 
The noble 'neath foul rags beholds his long-lost brother. 

To thee the Martyr looketh, and his fires 
Unlock their fangs and leave his spirit free; 

To thee the Poet 'mid his toil aspires, 

And grief and hunger climb about his knee 

Welcome as children; thou upholdest 

The lone Inventor by his demon haunted; 

The Prophet cries to thee when hearts are coldest 
And, gazing o'er the midnight's bleak abyss, 
Sees the drowsed soul awaken at thy kiss, 

And stretch its happy arms and leap up disenchanted. 

Thou bringest vengeance, but so loving kindly 
The guilty thinks it pity; taught by thee 

Fierce tyrants drop the scourges wherewith blindly 
Their own souls they were scarring; conquerors see 

With horror in their hands the accursed spear 
That tore the meek One's side on Calvary; 



THE MODERN BELLE. 1 77 

And from their trophies shrink with ghastly fear; 

Thou, too, art the Forgiver, 
The beauty of man's soul to man revealing; 

The arrows from thy quiver 
Pierce error's guilty heart, but only pierce for healing. 

O, whither, whither, glory-winged dreams, 

From out Life's sweat and turmoil would ye bear me ? 
Shut, gates of Fancy, on your golden gleams, 
This agony of hopeless contrast spare me! 
Fade, cheating glow, and leave me to my night! 
He is a coward who would borrow 
A charm against the present sorrow 
From the vague Future's promise of delight: 
As life's alarums nearer roll, 

The ancestral buckler calls, 
Self-clanging, from the walls 
In the high temple of the soul; 
Where are most sorrows, there the poet's sphere is, 
To feed the soul with patience, 
To heal its desolations 
With words of unshorn truth, with love that never wearies.. 



THE MODERN BELLE. 
Stark. 

She sits in a fashionable parlor 

And rocks in her easy chair; 
She is clad in silks and satins, 

And jewels are in her hair; 
She winks and giggles and simpers, 

And simpers and giggles and winks, 
And though she talks but little, 

'Tis a good deal more than she thinks. 

She lies abed in the morning 

Till nearly the hour of noon, 
Then comes down snapping and snarling 

Because she was called so soon; 
Her hair is still in papers, 

Her cheeks still fresh with paint — 
Remains of her last night's blushes 

Before she intended to faint. 



178 HENRY THE FOURTH'S SOLILOQUY ON SLEEP. 

She dotes upon men unshaven, 

And men with "flowing hair"; 
She's eloquent over mustaches, 

They give such a foreign air. 
She talks of Italian music, 

And falls in love with the moon; 
And if a mouse were to meet her 

She would sink away in a swoon. 

Her feet are so very little, 

Her hands are so very white, 
Her jewels so very heavy, 

And her head so very light; 
Her color is made of cosmetics 

(Though this she will never own), 
Her body is made mostly of cotton, 

Her heart is made wholly of stone. 

She falls in love with a fellow 

Who swells with a foreign air; 
He marries her for her money, 

She marries him for his hair! 
One of the very best matches — 

Both are well mated in life — 
She's got a fool for a husband, 

He's got a fool for a wife. 



HENRY THE FOURTH'S SOLILOQUY ON SLEEP. 
Shakespeare. 

How many thousand of my poorest subjects 

Are at this hour asleep! O sleep, O gentle sleep, 

Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, 

That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down, 

And steep my senses in forgetfulness? 

Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, 

Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee, 

And hushed with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber, 

Than in the perfumed chambers of the great, 

Under the canopies of costly state, 

And lulled with sounds of sweetest melody? 

O! thou dull god, why liest thou with the vile, 



ON PROCRASTINATION. I 79 

In loathsome beds ; and leav'st the kingly couch, 

A watch-case, or a common 'larum bell? 

Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast 

Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains 

In cradle of the rude imperious surge, 

And in the visitation of the winds, 

Who take the ruffian billows by the top, 

Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them 

With deafening clamors in the slippery clouds, 

That with the hurly, death itself awakes? 

Canst thou, O partial sleep! give thy repose 

To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude; 

And, in the calmest and most stillest night, 

With all appliances and means to boot, 

Deny it to a king? Then, happy low-lie-down! 

Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. 



ON PROCRASTINATION. 

Young. 

Be wise to-day; 'tis madness to defer; 
Next day the fatal precedent will plead; 
Thus on, till wisdom is pushed out of life. 
Procrastination is the thief of time; 
Year after year it steals, till all are fled, 
And to the mercies of a moment leaves 
The vast concerns of an eternal scene. 

Of man's miraculous mistakes this bears 
The palm, "That all men are about to live," 
For ever on the brink of being born. 
All pay themselves the compliment to think 
They one day shall not drivel; and their pride 
On this reversion takes up ready praise: 
At least their own; their future selves applaud: 
How excellent that life they ne'er will lead! 
Time lodged in their own hands is Folly's vails; 
That lodged in Fate's to wisdom they consign; 
The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone^ 
'Tisnotin folly not to scorn a fool, 
And scarce in human wisdom to do more. 
All promise is poor dilatory man, 



l8o CATO'S SOLILOQUY. 

And that through every stage. When young, indeed, 

In full content we sometimes nobly rest, 

Unanxious for ourselves, and only wish, 

As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise. 

At thirty man suspects himself a fool; 

Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan; 

At fifty chides his infamous delay, 

Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve; 

In all the magnanimity of thought 

Resolves, and re-resolves; then dies the same. 

And why ? Because he thinks himself immortal. 
All men think all men mortal but themselves; 
Themselves, when some alarming shock of fate 
Strikes through their wounded hearts the sudden dread; 
But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air, 
Soon close; where passed the shaft no trace is found, 
As from the wing no scar the sky retains, 
The parted wave no furrow from the keel, 
So dies in human hearts the thought of death. 
Even with the tender tears which nature sheds 
O'er those we love, we drop it in their grave. 



CATO'S SOLILOQUY. 

Joseph Addison. 

It must be so — Plato, thou reasonest well! 

Else, whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, 

This longing after immortality? 

Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror, 

Of falling into naught ? Why shrinks the soul 

Back on herself, and startles at destruction? 

'Tis the divinity that stirs within us; 

'Tis Heaven itself, that points out a hereafter, 

And intimates eternity to man. 

Eternity! — thou pleasing, dreadful thought! 
Through what variety of untried being, 
Through what new scenes and changes must we pass! 
The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me; 
But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. 
Here will I hold. If there's a Power above us, — 
And that there is, all Nature cries aloud 



NOT ON THE BATTLE-FIELD. I 

Through all her works, — He must delight in virtue; 
And that which He delights in must be happy. 
But when? or where? This world was made for Caesar. 
I'm weary of conjectures, — this must end them. 

[Laying his hand on his sword. 
Thus am I doubly armed. My death and life, 
My bane and antidote, are both before me. 
This in a moment brings me to my end; 
But this informs me I shall never die. 
The soul, secure in her existence, smiles 
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. 
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself 
Grow dim with age, and Nature sink in years; 
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, 
Unhurt amid the war of elements, 
The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds. 



NOT ON THE BATTLE-FIELD. 
John Pierpont. 

O, no, no — let me lie 

Not on a field of battle, when I die! 

Let not the iron tread 
Of the mad war-horse crush my helmed head: 

Nor let the reeking knife, 
That I have drawn against a brother's life, 

Be in my hand, when Death 
Thunders along, and tramples me beneath 

His heavy squadron's heels, 
Or gory felloes of his cannon's wheels. 

From such a dying bed, 
Though o'er it float the stripes of white and red, 

And the bald Eagle brings 
The clustered stars upon his wide-spread wings, 

To sparkle in my sight, 
O, never let my spirit take her flight! 

I know that beauty's eye 
Is all the brighter where gay pennants fly, 

And brazen helmets dance, 
And sunshine flashes on the lifted lance: 



182 NOT ON THE BATTLE-FIELD. 

I know that bards have sung 
And people shouted till the welkin rung, 

In honor of the brave 
Who on the battle-field have found a grave; 

I know that o'er their bones 
Have grateful hands piled monumental stones. 

Such honors grace the bed, 
I know, whereon the warrior lays his head, 

And hears, as life ebbs out, 
The conquered flying, and the conqueror's shout 

But, as his eyes grow dim, 
What is a column or a mound to him? 

What to the parting soul, 
The mellow note of bugles? What the roll 

Of drums? No! let me die 
Where the blue heaven bends o'er me lovingly. 

And, in my dying hour, 
When riches, fame, and honor have no power 

To bear the spirit up, 
Or from my lips to turn aside the cup 

That all must drink at last, 
O, let me draw refreshment from the past! 

Then let my soul run back, 
With peace and joy, along my earthly track, 

And see that all the seeds 
That I have scattered there, in virtuous deeds, 

Have sprung up and have given 
Already fruits of which to taste is Heaven! 

And, though no grassy mound 
Or granite pile say 'tis heroic ground 

Where my remains repose, 
Still will I hope — vain hope, perhaps! — that those 

Whom I have striven to bless, 
The wanderer reclaimed, the fatherless, 

May stand around my grave 
With the poor prisoner, and the poorer slave, 

And breathe a humble prayer, 
That they may die like him whose bones are moldering 
there. 



THE AIM OF DON QUIXOTE. 183 

THE AIM OF DON QUIXOTE. 
George Ticknor. 

At the very beginning of his great work, Cervantes an- 
nounces it to be his sole purpose to break down the vogue 
and authority of books of chivalry, and at the end of the 
whole, he declares anew, in his own person, that " he had 
no other desire than to render abhorred of men the false 
and absurd stories contained in books of chivalry;" ex- 
ulting in his success, as an achievement of no small mo- 
ment. And such, in fact, it was; for we have abundant 
proof that the fanaticism for these romances was so great in 
Spain, during the sixteenth century, as to have become 
matter of alarm to the more judicious. 

To destroy a passion that had struck its roots so deeply 
in the character of all classes of men, to break up the only 
reading which, at that time, could be considered widely 
popular and fashionable, was certainly a bold undertaking, 
and one that marks anything rather than a scornful or broken 
spirit, or a want of faith in what is most to be valued in our 
common nature. The great wonder is, that Cervantes suc- 
ceeded. But that he did, there is no question. No book of 
chivalry was written after the appearance of Don Quixote in 
1605; and from that date, even those already enjoying the 
greatest favor ceased, with one or two unimportant excep- 
tions, to be reprinted: so that, from that time to the present, 
they have been constantly disappearing, until they are now 
among the rarest of literary curiosities. 

The general plan Cervantes adopted to accomplish this 
object, without, perhaps, foreseeing its whole course, and 
still less all its results, was simple as well as original. In 
1605, he published the first part of Don Quixote, in which 
a country gentleman of La Mancha — full of genuine Castil- 
ian honor and enthusiasm, gentle and dignified in his char- 
acter, trusted by his friends, and loved by his dependents — 
is represented as so completely crazed by long reading the 
most famous books of chivalry, that he believes them to be 
true, and feels himself called on to become the impossible 
knight-errant they describe, — nay, actually goes forth into 
the world to defend the oppressed and avenge the injured, 
like the heroes of his romances. 

To complete his chivalrous equipment, — which he had 



184 THE AIM OF DON QUIXOTE. 

begun by fitting up for himself a suit of armor strange to 
his century, — he took an esquire out of his neighborhood; a 
middle-aged peasant, ignorant and credulous to excess, but 
of great good nature; a glutton and a liar; selfish and gross, 
yet attached to his master; shrewd enough occasionally to 
see the folly of their position, but always amusing, and some- 
times mischievous in his interpretations of it. 

These two sally forth from their native village, in search 
of adventures of which the excited imagination of the knight, 
turning windmills into giants, solitary inns into castles, and 
galley-slaves into oppressed gentlemen, finds abundance 
wherever he goes; while the esquire translates them all into 
the plain prose of truth with an admirable simplicity, quite 
unconscious of its own humor, and rendered the more strik- 
ing by its contrast with the lofty and courteous dignity and 
magnificent illusions of the superior personage. There 
could, of course, be but one consistent termination of ad- 
ventures like these. The knight and his esquire suffer a 
series of ridiculous discomfitures, and are, at last, brought 
home, like madmen, to their native village, where Cervantes 
leaves them with an intimation that the story of their adven- 
tures is by no means ended. 

The latter half of Don Quixote is a contradiction of the 
proverb Cervantes cites in it — that second parts- were never 
yet good for much. It is, in fact, better than the first. But, 
throughout both parts, Cervantes shows the impulses and 
instincts of an original power with most distinctness in his 
development of the characters of Don Quixote and Sancho; 
characters in whose contrast and opposition is hidden the 
full spirit of his peculiar humor, and no small part of what 
is most characteristic of the entire fiction. They are his 
prominent personages. His delights, therefore, to have 
them as much as possible in the front of his scene. 

The knight becomes gradually a detached, separate, and 
wholly independent personage into whom is infused so much 
of a generous and elevated nature, such gentleness and deli- 
cacy, such a pure sense of honor, and such a warm love for 
whatever is noble and good, that we feel almost the same 
attachment to him that the barber and the curate did, and are 
almost as ready as his family was, to mourn over his death. 

The case of Sancho is, again, very similar, and, perhaps, 
in some respects stronger. At first, he is introduced as the 
opposite of Don Quixote, and used merely to bring out his 



THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP. 185 

master's peculiarities in a more striking relief. It is not 
until we have gone through nearly half of the first part 
that he utters one of those proverbs which form afterward 
the staple of his conversation and humor; and it is not until 
the opening of the second part, and, indeed, not till he 
comes forth in all his mingled shrewdness and credulity, as 
governor of Barataria, that his character is quite developed 
and completed to the full measure of its grotesque, yet con- 
gruous proportions. 

But, if we would do Cervantes the justice that would have 
been dearest to his own spirit, and even if we would our- 
selves fully comprehend and enjoy the whole of his Don 
Quixote, we should, as we read it, bear in mind that this 
delightful romance was not the result of a youthful exuber- 
ance of feeling, and a happy external condition, nor com- 
posed in his best years, when the spirits of its author were 
light and his hopes high: but that, with all its unquenchable 
and irresistible humor, with its bright views of the world, 
and its cheerful trust in goodness and virtue, it was written 
in his old age, at the conclusion of a life nearly every step 
of which had been marked with disappointed expectations, 
disheartening struggles, and sore calamities; that he began 
it in a prison, and that it was finished when he felt the hand 
of death pressing heavy and cold upon his heart. If this be 
remembered as we read, we may feel, as we ought to feel, 
what admiration and reverence are due, not only to the 
living power of Don Quixote, but to the character and genius 
of Cervantes; if it be forgotten or underrated, we shall fail 
in regard to both. 



THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP.* 
Thomas Moore. 

" They made her a grave, too cold and damp 

For a soul so warm and true; 
And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp, 

* They tell of a young man who lost his mind upon the death of a 
girl he loved, and who, suddenly disappearing from his friends, was never 
afterward heard of. As he had frequently said, in his ravings, that the 
girl was not dead but gone to the Dismal Swamp, it is supposed he had 
wandered into that dreary wilderness, and had died of hunger or been 
lost in some of its dreadful morasses. — Anon. 



l86 THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP. 

Where, all night long, by a fire fly lamp, 
She paddles her white canoe! 

"And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see, 

And her paddle I soon shall hear; 
Long and loving our life shall be, 
And I'll hide the maid in a cypress tree, 

When the footstep of death is near! " 

Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds — 

His path was rugged and sore, 
Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds, 
Through many a fen, where the serpent feeds, 

And man never trod before! 

And, when on the earth he sunk to sleep, 

If slumber his eyelids knew, 
He lay where the deadly vine doth weep 
Its venomous tear, and nightly steep 

The flesh with blistering dew! 

And near him the she wolf stirred the brake, 
And the copper-snake breathed in his ear, 

Till he starting cried, from his dream awake, 

" Oh, when shall I see the dusky lake,* 
And the white canoe of my dear?" 

He saw the lake, and a meteor bright 

Quick over its surface played — 
"Welcome," he said, "my dear one's light," 
And the dim shore echoed, for many a night, 

The name of the death-cold maid! 

Till he hollowed a boat of the birchen bark, 

Which carried him off from shore; 
Far, far he followed the meteor spark, 
The wind was high and the clouds were dark, 

And the boat returned no more. 

* The Dismal Swamp is an immense marshy tract of land, commencing 
near Norfolk, Virginia, and extending far into North Carolina: being 
about thirty miles in length and ten in width. In the midst of the 
Swamp is the lake here referred to — Lake Drummond — fifteen miles in 
circumference. 



DANTE AND MILTON CAMPARED. 187 

Bat oft from the Indian hunter's camp, 

This lover and maid so true 
Are seen, at the hour of midnight damp, 
To cross the lake by a fl re-fly lamp, 

And paddle their white canoe! 



DANTE AND MILTON COMPARED. 
Lord Macaulay. 

The character of Milton was peculiarly distinguished by 
loftiness of thought; that of Dante by intensity of feeling. 
In every line of the Divine Comedy, we discern the asperity 
which is produced by pride struggling with misery. There 
is, perhaps, no work in the world so deeply and uniformly 
sorrowful. 

.The melancholy of Dante was no fantastic caprice. It 
was not, as far as at this distance of time can be judged, 
the effect of external circumstances. It was from within. 
Neither love nor glory, neither the conflicts of the earth nor 
the hope of Heaven, could dispel it. It twined every con- 
solation and every pleasure into its own nature. It resem- 
bled that noxious Sardinian soil of which the intense bitter- 
ness is said to have been percetpible even in its honey. 
His mind was, in the noble language of the Hebrew poet, 
" a land of darkness, as darkness itself, and where the light 
was as darkness! " 

The gloom of his character discolors all the passions of 
men and all the face of nature, and tinges with its own 
livid hue the flowers of Paradise and the glories of the Eter- 
nal Throne. All the portraits of him are singularly charac- 
teristic. No person can look on the features, noble even to 
ruggedness, the dark furrows of the cheek, the haggard and 
woeful stare of the eye, the sullen and contemptuous curve 
of the lip, and doubt that they belonged to a man too proud 
and too sensitive to be happy. 

Milton was, like Dante, a statesman and a lover; and, like 
Dante, he had been unfortunate in ambition and in love. He 
had survived his health and his sight, the comforts of his 
home and the prosperity of his party. Of the great men by 
whom he had been distinguished on his entrance into life, 
some had been taken away from the evil to come; some had 
carried into foreign climates their unconquerable hatred of 



155 THE AFRICAN CHIEF. 

oppression ; some were pining in dungeons; and some had 
poured forth their blood on scaffolds. 

That hateful proscription — facetiously termed the act of 
indemnity and oblivion — had set a mark on the poor, blind, 
deserted poet, and held him up by name to the hatred of a 
profligate court and an inconstant people. Venal and licen- 
tious scribblers, with just sufficient talent to clothe the 
thoughts of a pander in the style of a bellman, were now the 
favorite writers of the sovereign and the public. 

It was a loathsome herd — which could be compared to 
nothing, so fitly, as to the rabble of Comus — grotesque mon- 
sters, half bestial, half human — dropping with wine, bloated 
with gluttony, and reeling in obscene dances. Amidst these 
his Muse was placed, like the chaste lady of the Masque, 
lofty, spotless, and serene — to be chatted at, and pointed at, 
and grinned at, by the whole tribe of satyrs and goblins. 

If ever despondency could be excused in any man, it 
might have been excused in Milton. But the strength of 
his mind overcame every calamity. Neither blindness, nor 
gout, nor penury, nor age, nor domestic afflictions, nor 
political disappointments, nor abuse, nor proscription, nor 
neglect, had power to disturb his sedate and majestic pa- 
tience. His spirits do not seem to have been high, but they 
were singularly equable. His temper was serious, perhaps 
stern; but it was a temper which no sufferings could render 
sullen or fretful. 

Such as it was, when on the eve of great events he re- 
turned from his travels, in the prime of health and manly 
beauty, loaded with literary distinctions and glowing with 
patriotic hopes, such it continued to be — when, after having 
experienced every calamity which is incident to our nature, 
old, poor, sightless, and disgraced, he retired to his hovel to 
die! 



THE AFRICAN CHIEF. 
William Cullen Bryant. 

Chained in the market-place he stood, 

A man of giant frame, 
Amid the gathering multitude 

That shrunk to hear his name — 
All stern of look and strong of limb, 

His dark eye on the ground; — 



THE AFRICAN CHIEF. 189 

And silently they gazed on him, 
As on a lion bound. 

Vainly, but well, that chief had fought, 

He was a captive now, 
Yet pride, that fortune humbles not, 

Was written on his brow. 
The scars his dark broad bosom wore 

Showed warrior true and brave; 
A prince among his tribe before, 

He could not be a slave. 

Then to his conqueror he spake — 

" My brother is a king; 
Undo this necklace from my neck, 

And take this bracelet ring, 
And send me where my brother reigns, 

And I will fill thy hands 
With store of ivory from the plains, 

And gold-dust from the sands." 

" Not for thy ivory nor thy gold 

Will I unbind thy chain; 
That bloody hand shall never hold 

The battle-spear again. 
A price thy nation never gave, 

Shall yet be paid for thee; 
For thou sha'lt be the Christian's slave, 

Inlands beyond the sea." 

Then wept the warrior chief, and bade 

To shred his locks away; 
And, one by one, each heavy braid 

Before the victor lay. 
Thick were the platted locks, and long, 

And deftly hidden there 
Shone many a wedge of gold among 

The dark and crisped hair. 

" Look, feast thy greedy eye with gold 

Long kept for sorest need; 
Take it — thou askest sums untold, 

And say that I am freed. 



I90 ALPINE SCENERY. 

Take it — my wife, the long, long day 

Weeps by the cocoa-tree, 
And my young children leave their play, 

And ask in vain for me." 

"I take thy gold — but I have made 

Thy fetters fast and strong, 
And ween that by the cocoa shade 

Thy wife will wait thee long." 
Strong was the agony that shook 

The captive's frame to hear, 
And the proud meaning of his look 

Was changed to mortal fear. 

His heart was broken — crazed his brain: 

At once his eye grew wild; 
He struggled fiercely with his chain, 

Whispered, and wept, and smiled; 
Yet wore not long those fatal bands, 

And once, at shut of day, 
They drew him forth upon the sands, 

The foul hyena's prey. 



ALPINE SCENERY. 
Lord Byron. 

Above me are the Alps — most glorious Alps — 

The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls 
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, 

And throned Eternity in icy halls 

Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls 
The avalanche — the thunderbolt of snow! 

All that expands the spirit, yet appalls, 
Gather around these summits as to show 
How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man below. 

Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face, — 
The mirror, where the stars and mountains view 

The stillness of their aspect in each trace 

Its clear depth yields of their far height and hue. 
There is too much of man here, to look through, 



ALPINE SCENERY. 19I 

With a fit mind, the might which I behold; 

But soon in me shall loneliness renew 
Thoughts hid, but not less cherished than of old, 
Ere mingling with the herd that penned me in their fold. 

Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake 

With the wide world I've dwelt in is a thing 
Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake 

Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. 

This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing 
To waft me from distraction ; once I loved 

Torn ocean's roar ; but thy soft murmuring 
Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved, 
That I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved. 

It is the hush of night; and all between 

Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, 
Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen, 

Save darkened Jura, whose capped heights appear 

Precipitously steep; and drawing near, 
There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, 

Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear 
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, 
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more. 

He is an evening reveler, who makes 

His life an infancy, and sings his fill; 
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes 

Starts into voice a moment, then is still. 

There seems a floating whisper on the hill; — 
But that is fancy; for the starlight dews 

All silently their tears of love distill, 
Weeping themselves away till they infuse 
Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues. 

Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven, 

If, in your bright leaves, we would read the fate 
Of men and empires, — 'tis to be forgiven, 

That in our aspirations to be great, 

Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, 
And claim a kindred with you; for ye are 

A beauty and a mystery, and create 
In us such love and reverence from afar, 
That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star. 



192 ALPINE SCENERY. 

All heaven and earth are still, — though not in sleep, 
But breathless, as we grow when feeling most; 

And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep: — 

All heaven and earth are still! From the high host 
Of stars to the lulled lake, and mountain coast, 

All is concentered in a life intense, 

Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, 

But hath a part of being, and a sense 

Of that which is of all Creator and Defense. 

The sky is changed! and such a change! O Night, 
And Storm, and Darkness, ye are wondrous strong, 

Yet lovely in your strength, as the light 
Of a dark eye in woman! Far along, 
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among, 

Leaps the live thunder! — not from one lone cloud, 
But every mountain now hath found a tongue; 

And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, 

Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud! 

And this is in the night. — Most glorious night! 

Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be 
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — 

A portion of the tempest and of thee! 

How the lit lake shines, — a phosphoric sea — 
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth! 

And now again 'tis black — and now, the glee 
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain mirth, 
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. 

Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye, 

With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul 
To make these felt and feeling, well may be 

Things that have made me watchful: — the far roll 

Of your departing voices is the knoll 
Of what in me is sleepless, — if I rest, 

But where, of ye, O tempests! is the goal? 
Are ye like those within the human breast? 
Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest? 

The morn is up again, the dewy morn, 

With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom, 
Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn, 

And living as if earth contained no tomb, — 



BLENNERHASSETT. I93 

And glowing into day: we may resume 
The march of our existence; and thus I, 

Still on thy shores, fair Leman! may find room 
And food for meditation, nor pass by 
Much, that may give us pause, if pondered fittingly. 



BLENNERHASSETT. 
William Wirt. 

Who is Blennerhassett? A native of Ireland, a man of 
letters, who fled from the storms of his own country to find 
quiet in ours. Possessing himself of a beautiful island in the 
Ohio, he rears upon it a palace, and decorates it with every 
romantic embellishment of fancy. A shrubbery, that Shen- 
stone might have envied, blooms around him; music, which 
might have charmed Calypso and her nymphs, is his; an 
extensive library spreads its treasures before him; a philo- 
sophical apparatus offers to him all the secrets and mys- 
teries of nature; peace, tranquillity, and innocence, shed 
their mingled delights around him ; and to crown the 
enchantment of the scene, a wife, who is said to be lovely 
even beyond her sex, and graced with every accomplishment 
that can render it irresistible, had blessed him with her love, 
and made him the father of her children. 

The evidence would convince you, sir, that this is only a 
faint picture of the real life. In the midst of all this peace, 
this innocence, and this tranquillity, this feast of the mind, 
this pure banquet of the heart — the destroyer comes ; he 
comes to turn this paradise into a hell. A stranger presents 
himself. It is Aaron Burr! Introduced to their civilities 
by the high rank which he had lately held in his country, 
he soon finds his way to their hearts by the dignity and 
elegance of his demeanor, the light and beauty of his con- 
versation, and the seductive and fascinating power of his 
address. The conquest was not a difficult one. Innocence 
is ever simple and credulous; conscious of no designs of 
itself, it suspects none in others; it wears no guards before 
its breast; every door, and portal, and avenue of the heart 
is thrown open, and all who choose it, enter. Such was the 
state of Eden, when the serpent entered its bowers. The 
prisoner in a more engaging form, winding himself into the 
open and unpracticed heart of the unfortunate Blenner- 



194 



SERENADE. 



hassett, found but little difficulty in changing the native 
character of that heart, and the objects of its affection. By 
degrees he infuses into it the poison of his own ambition; he 
breathes into it the fire of his own courage; a daring and 
desperate thirst for glory; an ardor panting for all the 
storms, and bustle, and hurricane of life. 

In a short time the whole man is changed, and every 
object of his former delight relinquished. Greater objects 
have taken possession of his soul; his imagination has been 
dazzled by visions of diadems, and stars, and garters, and 
titles of nobility ; he has been taught to burn with restless 
emulation at the names of Cromwell, Caesar, and Bonaparte. 
His enchanted island is destined soon to relapse into a 
desert; and in a few months we find the tender and beau- 
tiful partner of his bosom, whom he lateely "permitted not 
the winds of summer to visit too roughly, — " we find her 
shivering, at midnight, on the winter banks of the Ohio, and 
mingling her tears with the torrents that froze as they. fell. 

Yet this unfortunate man, thus deluded from his interest 
and his happiness; thus seduced from the paths of inno- 
cence and peace; thus confounded in the toils which were de- 
liberately spread for him, and overwhelmed by the mastering 
spirit and genius of another; — this man, thus ruined and 
undone, and made to play a subordinate part in this grand 
drama of guilt and treason, this man is to be called the prin- 
cipal offender; while he, by whom he was thus plunged and 
steeped in misery, is comparatively innocent — a mere acces- 
sory. Sir, neither the human heart, nor the human under- 
standing, will bear a perversion so monstrous and absurd; 
so shocking to the soul; so revolting to reason. 



SERENADE. 
James Gates Percival. 

Softly the moonlight 
Is shed on the lake, 
Cool is the summer nighty- 
Wake! O, awake! 
Faintly the curfew 
Is heard from afar, 
List ye! O, list 
To the lively guitar. 



SERENADE. 1 95 

Trees cast a mellow shade 
Over the vale, 
Sweetly the serenade 
Breathes in the gale, 
Softly and tenderly 
Over the lake, 
Gayly and cheerily, — 
Wake! O, awake ! 

See the light pinnace 
Draws nigh to the shore, 
Swiftly it glides, 
At the heave of the oar, 
Cheerily plays 
On its buoyant car, 
Nearer and nearer, 
The lively guitar. 

Now the wind rises 
And ruffles the pine, 
Ripples foam-crested 
Like diamonds shine, 
They flash where the waters 
The white pebbles lave, 
In the wake of the moon, 
As it crosses the wave. 

Bounding from billow 
To billow, the boat, 
Like a wild swan, is seen 
On the waters to float; 
And the light dripping oars 
Bear it smoothly along, 
In time to the air 
Of the gondolier's song. 

And high on the stern 

Stands the young and the brave, 

As love-led he crosses 

The star-spangled wave, 

And blends with the murmur 

Of water and grove 

The tones of the night, 

That are sacred to love. 



196 NIGHTFALL. 

His gold-hilted sword 

At his bright belt is hung, 

His mantle of silk 

On his shoulder is flung, 

And high waves the feather, 

That dances and plays 

On his cap where the buckle 

And rosary blaze. 

The maid from her lattice 
Looks down on the lake, 
To see the foam sparkle, 
The bright billow break, 
And to hear in his boat, 
Where he shines like a star, 
Her lover so tenderly 
Touch his guitar. 

She opens her lattice 

And sits in the glow 

Of the moonlight and starlight, 

A statue of snow; 

And she sings in a voice 

That is broken with sighs, 

And she darts on her lover 

The light of her eyes. 

The moonlight is hid 
In a vapor of snow; 
Her voice and his rebec 
Alternately flow ; 
Re-echoed they swell 
From the rock on the hill; 
They sing their farewell, 
And the music is still. 



NIGHTFALL. 
W. W. Ellsworth. 

Alone I stand; 
On either hand 
In gathering gloom stretch sea and land; 



NIGHTFALL. I97 

Beneath my feet, 
With ceaseless beat, 
The waters murmur low and sweet. 

Slow falls the night: 

The tender light 
Of stars grows brighter and more bright, 

The lingering ray 

Of dying day 
Sinks deeper down and fades away. 

Now fast, now slow, 

The south winds blow, 
And softly whisper, breathing low; 

With gentle grace 

They kiss my face, 
Or fold me in their cool embrace. 

Where one pale star, 

O'er waters far, 
Droops down to touch the harbor bar, 

A faint light gleams, 

A light that seems 
To grow and grow till nature teems 

With mellow haze; 

And to my gaze 
Comes proudly rising, with its rays 

No longer dim, 

The moon; its rim 
In splendor gilds the billowy brim. 

I watch it gain 

The heavenly plain; 
Behind it trails a starry train — 

While low and sweet 

The wavelets beat 
Their murmuring music at my feet. 

Fair night of June! 

Your silver moon 
Gleams pale and still. The tender tune, 

Faint-floating, plays, 

In moonlit lays, 
A melody of other days. 



I98 THE BOY. j 

'Tis sacred ground; 

A peace profound 
Comes o'er my soul. I hear no sound, 

Save at my feet 

The ceaseless beat 
Of waters murmuring low and sweet. 



THE BOY. 
Nathaniel P. Willis. 

There's something in a noble boy, 

A brave, free-hearted, careless one, 
With his uncheck'd, unbidden joy, 

His dread of books and love of fun, 
And in his clear and ready smile, 
Unshaded by a thought of guile, 

And unrepress'd by sadness, — 
Which brings me to my childhood back, 
As if I trod its very track, 

And felt its very gladness. 

And yet, it is not in his play, 

When every trace of thought is lost, 
And not when you would call him gay, 

That his bright presence thrills me most: 
His shout may ring upon the hill, 

His voice be echo'd in the hall, 
His merry laugh like music trill, 

And I in sadness hear it all, — 
For, like the wrinkles on my brow, 
I scarcely notice such things now, — 

But when, amid the earnest game, 

He stops, as if he music heard, 
And, heedless of his shouted name 

As of the carol of a bird, 
Stands gazing on the empty air, 
As if some dream were passing there;— 

'Tis then that on his face I look — 
His beautiful but thoughtful face — 

And, like a long-forgotten book, 
Its sweet familiar meanings trace, — 



A REVERIE. 199 

Remembering a thousand things 

Which passed me on those golden wings, 

Which time has fetter'd now; 
Things that come o'er me with a thrill, 
And left me silent, sad, and still, 

And threw upon my brow 
A holier and a gentler cast, 
That was too innocent to last. 

'Tis strange how thoughts upon a child 

Will, like a presence, sometimes press, 
And when his pulse is beating wild, 

And life itself is in excess — 
When foot and hand, and ear and eye, 
Are all with ardor straining high — 

How in his heart will spring 
A feeling whose mysterious thrall 
Is stronger, sweeter far than all! 

And on its silent wing, 
How, with the clouds, he'll float away, 
As wandering and as lost as they! 



A REVERIE. 
James Russell Lowell. 

In the twilight deep and silent 

Comes thy spirit unto mine, 

When the moonlight and the starlight 

Over cliff and woodland shine, 

And the quiver of the river 

Seems a thrill of joy benign. 

Then I rise and wander slowly 
To the headland by the sea, 
When the evening star throbs setting 
Through the cloudy cedar tree, 
And from under, mellow thunder 
Of the surf comes fitfully. 

Then within my soul I feel thee 
Like a gleam of other years, 



200 A REVERIE. 

Visions of my childhood murmur 
Their old madness in my ears, 
Till the pleasance of thy presence 
Cools my heart with blissful tears. 

All the wondrous dreams of boyhood — 

All youth's fiery thirst of praise — 

All the surer hopes of manhood 

Blossoming in sadder days — 

Joys that bound me, griefs that crowned me 

With a better wreath than bays — 

All the longings after freedom — 
The vague love of human kind, 
Wandering far and near at random 
Like a winged seed in the wind — 
The dim yearnings and fierce burnings 
Of an undirected mind — 

All of these, oh best beloved, 
Happiest present dreams and past, 
In thy love find safe fulfillment, 
Ripened into truths at last; 
Faith and beauty, hope and duty 
To one center gather fast. 

How my nature, like an ocean, 
At the breath of thine awakes, 
Leaps its shores in mad exulting 
And in foamy thunder breaks, 
Then downsinking, lieth shrinking 
At the tumult that it makes! 

Blazing Hesperus hath sunken 
Low within the pale-blue west, 
And with golden splendor crowneth 
The horizon's piny crest; 
Thoughtful quiet stills the riot 
Of wild longing in my breast. 

Home I loiter through the moonlight, 
Underneath the quivering trees, 



LEE S MISERABLES. 



Which, as if a spirit stirred them, 
Sway and bend, till by degrees 
The far surge's murmur merges 
In the rustle of the breeze. 



LEE'S MISERABLES. 

They called themselves Lee's Miserables. The name had 
a somewhat curious origin. Victor Hugo's novel, Les 
Miserables, had been translated and published by a house in 
Richmond. The soldiers, in the great dearth of reading 
matter, had seized upon it, and so by a strange chance the 
tragic story of the great French writer had become known 
to the soldiers in the trenches. Little familiar with the 
Gallic pronunciation, they called the book Lee's Miserables. 
Then another step was taken. The worn veterans of the 
army laughed at their miseries and called themselves Lee's 
Miserables, And, truly, they were the wretched. A little 
grease and corn bread, the grease rancid and the bread 
musty — this was the food of the army. Thousands had no 
blankets, no jackets, no shoes. Gaunt forms in ragged old 
shirts and torn trousers clutched their muskets. Day after 
day, week after week, month after month they were there, 
in the trenches, at the grim work; and some fiat of Destiny 
seemed to have chained them there to battle forever. Silence 
had fled from the trenches. The crash of musketry and the 
bellow of artillery seemed never to cease. The men were 
rocked to sleep by it. They slept on, though mortar shells 
rose, described their flaming courses, and bursting, rained 
fragments of death-dealing iron upon them. To many that 
was their last sleep. The iron tore them in their tanned 
blankets. They rose gasping, streaming with blood, then 
staggered and fell. When you passsed by you saw some- 
thing lying on the ground, covered with an old blanket. 
It was one of Lee's Miserables, killed last night and gone to 
answer before his Master. 

The trenches! Ah, the trenches! Where a historic army 
guarded the capital of a historic nation — the nation of Vir- 
ginia. And how they guarded it! In the bright day and 
dark, they stood by their posts unmoved. When you saw 
•the gaunt faces contract and the tears flow, it was because 



202 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 

some letter had come, saying that their wives and children 
were starving. 

Army of Northern Virginia! Old soldiers of Lee! You 
meant to follow your commander to the last. You did not 
shrink in the final hour, the hour of supreme trial. Did 
they, or did they not, fight to the end? Answer, Wilder- 
ness, Spottsylvania, Cold Harbor — every spot around Peters- 
burg where they closed in death grapple with the unwearied 
enemy! Answer, bleak spring of '65, trouble days of the 
great retreat, when, hunted down and driven to bay like 
wild animals, they fought from Five Forks to Appomattox 
Court House, fought staggering, starving, falling; but defi- 
ant to the last! 

Bearded men were seen crying on the 9th of April, '65. 
But it was surrender which wrung their hearts and brought 
tears to their eyes. Grant's cannons had only made Lee's 
Miserables cheer and laugh. 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 

Lord Byron. 

I. 

My hair is gray, but not with years, 
Nor grew it white 
In a single night, 
As men's have grown from sudden fears; 
My limbs are bowed, though not with toil, 

But rusted with a vile repose; 
For they have been a dungeon's spoil, 

And mine has been the fate of those 
To whom the goodly earth and air 
Are banned and barred — forbidden fare. 
But this was for my father's faith 
I suffered chains and courted death. 
That father perished at the stake 
For tenets he would not forsake; 
And for the same his lineal race 
In darkness found a dwelling-place. 
We were seven, who now are one — 

Six in youth, and one in age, 
Finished as they had begun, 

Proud of persecution's rage: 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 203 

One in fire, and two in field, 

Their belief with blood have sealed — 

Dying as their father died, 

For the God their foes denied; 

Three were in a dungeon cast, 

Of whom this wreck is left the last. 

11. 

They chained us each to a column stone; 
And we were three — yet, each alone. 
We could not move a single pace; 
We could not see each other's face, 
But with that pale and livid light 
That made us strangers in our sight; 
And thus together, yet apart — 
Fettered in hand, but joined in heart; 
'Twas still some solace, in the dearth 
Of the pure elements of earth, 
To hearken to each other's speech, 
And each turn comforter to each — 
With some new hope, or legend old, 
Or song heroically bold; 
But even these at length-grew cold. 
Our voices took a dreary tone, 
An echo of the dungeon-stone, 

A grating sound — not full and free, 

As they of yore were wont to be; 

It might be fancy — but to me 
They never sounded like our own. 

in. 
I said my nearer brother pined, 
I said his mighty heart declined. 
He loathed and put away his food; 
It was not that 'twas coarse and rude, 
For we were used to hunter's fare, 
And for the like had little care. 
The milk drawn from the mountain goat 
Was changed for water from the moat; 
Our bread was such as captives' tears 
Have moistened many a thousand years, 
Since man first pent his fellow-men, 
Like brutes, within an iron den, 



204 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 

But what were these to us or him? 
These wasted not his heart or limb; 
My brother's soul was of that mold 
Which in a palace had grown cold 
Had his free breathing been denied 
The range of the steep mountain's side. 
But why delay the truth? — he died. 
I saw, and could not hold his head, 
Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead, 
Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, 
To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 
He died — and they unlocked his chain, 
And scooped for him a shallow grave 
Even from the cold earth of our cave. 
I begged them, as a boon, to lay 
His corse in dust whereon the day 
Might shine — it was a foolish thought; 
But then within my brain it wrought 
That even in death his freeborn breast 
In such a dungeon could not rest. 
I might have spared my idle prayer — 
They coldly laughed, and laid him there, 
The flat and turfless earth above 
The being we so much did love; 
His empty chain above it leant — 
Such murder's fitting monument! 

IV. 

But he, the favorite and the flower, 

Most cherished since his natal hour, 

His mother's image in fair face, 

The infant love of all his race, 

His martyred father's dearest thought, 

My latest care — for whom I sought 

To hoard my life, that his might be 

Less wretched now, and one day free — 

He, too, who yet had held untired 

A spirit natural or inspired — 

He, too, was struck, and day by day 

Was withered on the stalk away. 

O God! it is a fearful thing 

To see the human sonl take wing 

In any shape, in any mood: 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 205 

I've seen it rushing forth in blood; 

I've seen it on the breaking ocean 

Strive with a swollen, convulsive motion; 

I've seen the sick and ghastly bed 

Of sin, delirious with its dread; 

But these were horrors — this was woe 

Unmixed with such — but sure and slow. 

He faded, and so calm and meek, 

So softly worn, so sweetly weak, 

So tearless, yet so tender — kind, 

And grieved for those he left behind; 

With all the while a cheek whose bloom 

Was as a mockery of the tomb, 

Whose tints as gently sunk away 

As a departing rainbow's ray — 

An eye of most transparent light, 

That almost made the dungeon bright, 

And not a word of murmur, not 

A groan o'er his untimely lot — 

A little talk of better days, 

A little hope my own to raise; 

For I was sunk in silence — lost 

In this last loss, of all the most. 

And then the sighs he would suppress 

Of fainting nature's feebleness, 

More slowly drawn, grew less and less. 

I listened, but I could not hear — 

I called, for I was wild with fear; 

I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread 

Would not be thus admonished; 

I called, and thought I heard a sound — 

I burst my chain with one strong bound, 

And rushed to him: I found him not. 

I only stirred in this black spot; 

I only lived — I only drew 

The accursed breath of dungeon dew; 

The last, the sole, the dearest link 

Between me and the eternal brink, 

Which bound me to my failing race, 

Was broken in this fatal place. 

One on the earth, and one beneath — 

My brothers — both had ceased to breathe. 

I took that hand which lay so still — 



206 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 

Alas! my own was full as chill; 
I had not strength to stir or strive, 
But felt that I was still alive — 
A frantic feeling, when we know 
That what we love shall ne'er be so. 

I know not why 

I could not die, 
I had no earthly hope — but faith, 
And that forbade a selfish death. 

v. 
What next befel me then and there 

I know not well — I never knew. 
First came the loss of light and air, 

And then of darkness too. 
I had no thought, no feeling — none: 
Among the stones I stood a stone; 
And was, scarce conscious what I wist, 
As shrubless crags within the mist; 
For all was blank, and bleak, and gray; 
It was not night — it was not day; 
It was not even the dungeon-light, 
So hateful to my heavy sight; 
But vacancy absorbing space, 
And fixedness, without a place; 
There were no stars, no earth, no time, 
No check, no change, no good, no crime, 
But silence, and a stirless breath 
Which neither was of life nor death — 
A sea of stagnant idleness, 
Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless. 

VI. 

A light broke in upon my brain — 

It was the carol of a. bird; 
It ceased, and then it came again — 

The sweetest song ear ever heard; 
And mine was thankful till my eyes 
Ran over with the glad surprise, 
And they that moment could not see 
I was the mate of misery; 
But then, by dull degrees came back 
My senses to their wonted track: 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 207 

I saw the dungeon walls and floor 

Close slowly round me as before; 

I saw the glimmer of the sun 

Creeping as it before had done; 

But through the crevice where it came 

That bird was perched as fond and tame, 

And tamer than upon the tree — 
A lovely bird with azure wings, 
And song that said a thousand things, 

And seemed to say them all for me! 
I never saw its like before — 
I ne'er shall see its likeness more. 
It seemed, like me, to want a mate, 
But was not half so desolate; 
And it was come to love me when 
None lived to love me so again, 
And, cheering from my dungeon's brink, 
Had brought me back to feel and think. 
I know not if it late were free, 

Or broke its cage to perch on mine; 
But knowing well captivity, 

Sweet bird! I could not wish for thine — 
Or if it were, in winged guise, 
A visitant from Paradise; 
For — heaven forgive that thought, the while 
Which made me both to weep and smile! — 
I sometimes deemed that it might be 
My brother's soul come down to me; 
But then at last away it flew, 
And then 'twas mortal well I knew; 
For he would never thus have flown, 
And left me twice so doubly lone — 
Lone as the corse within its shroud, 
Lone as a solitary cloud, 

A single cloud on a sunny day, 
While all the rest of heaven is clear, 
A frown upon the atmosphere, 
That hath no business to appear 

When skies are blue and earth is gay. 

VII. 

A kind of change came in my fate — 
My keepers grew compassionate. 



208 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. * 

I know not what had made them so — - 
They were inured to sights of woe; 
But so it was — my broken chain 
With links unfastened did remain; 
And it was liberty to stride 
Along my cell from side to side, 
And up and down, and then athwart, 
And tread it over every part; 
And round the pillars one by one, 
Returning where my walk begun — 
Avoiding only, as I trod, 
My brothers' graves without a sod; 
For if I thought with heedless tread 
My step profaned their lowly bed, 
My breath came gaspingly and thick, 
And my crushed heart fell blind and sick. 

VIII. 

It might be months, or years, or days — 

I kept no count, I took no note — 
I had no hope my eyes to raise, 

And clear them of their dreary mote; 
At last came men to set me free, 

I asked not why, and recked not where; 
It was at length the same to me, 
Fettered or fetterless to be; 

I learned to love despair. 
And thus, when they appeared at last, 
And all my bonds aside were cast, 
These heavy walls to me had grown 
A hermitage — and all my own! 
And half I felt as they were come 
To tear me from a sacred home. 
With spiders I had friendship made, 
And watched them in their sullen trade,— 
Had seen the mice by moonlight play — 
And why should I feel less than they? 
We were all inmates of one place, 
And I, the monarch of each race, 
Had power to kill; yet, strange to tell! 
In quiet we had learned to dwell. 
My very chains and I grew friends, 
So much a long communion tends 



NATIONAL INJUSTICE. 200 

To make us what we are: even I 
Regained my freedom with a sigh. 



NATIONAL INJUSTICE. 
Theodore Parker. 

Do you know how empires find their end? Yes, the great 
States eat up the little. As with fish, so with nations. Aye, 
but how do the great States come to an end? By their own 
injustice. Come with me to the Inferno of the nations, with 
such poor guidance as my lamp can lend. Let us disquiet 
and bring up the awful shadows of empires buried long ago, 
and learn a lesson from the tomb. Come, old Assyria, with 
the dove of Nineveh upon thy emerald crown! What laid 
thee low? "I fell by my own injustice." Oh, queenly 
Persia, flame of the nations, wherefore art thou so fallen — 
thou that troddest the people under thee, didst bridge the 
Hellespont with ships, and didst pour thy temple-wasting 
millions on the Western World? " Because I trod the peo- 
ple under me, and bridged the Hellespont with ships, and 
poured my temple-wasting millions on the Western World. 
I fell by my own misdeeds." Thou muse-like Grecian 
queen, fairest of all thy classic sisterhood of States, enchant- 
ing the world with thy sweet witchery speaking in art and 
most seductive song, why liest thou there, with thy beaute- 
ous yet dishonored brow reposing on thy broken harp? " I 
scorned the law of God, banished and prisoned the wisest, 
justest men. I loved the loveliness of flesh embalmed in 
Parian stone; I loved the loveliness of thought, and treas- 
ured that more than Parian speech. But the reality of 
justice, the loveliness of right, I trod them down. So have 
I become as one of those barbarian States — as one of them/" 
Oh, manly, majestic Rome! thy seven -fold mural crown all 
broken at thy feet, why art thou here.' 'Twas not injustice 
brought thee low, for thy great book of law was prefaced 
with these words: "Justice is the unchanging, everlasting 
will to give each man his Right! " "It was not the saint's 
ideal, but the hypocrite's pretense. I made iniquity my 
law. I trod the nations under me. Their wealth gilded 
my palaces, where now thou mayest see the fox and hear 
the birds of night. It fed my courtiers and my courtesans. 
Wicked men were my earliest counselors. The flatterer 



2IO ROMANCE OF A HAMMOCK. 

breathed his poison in my ear. ♦ Millions of bondsmen met 
the evil with tears and blood. Do you not hear it crying 
yet to God? So here have I my recompense, tormented 
with such retribution as ye see. Go back and tell the new- 
born child who sits upon the Alleghanies, laying his either 
hand upon a tributary seaj a crown of forty-two stars upon 
his young brow — tell him there are rights which States must 
keep, or they shall fall ; tell him there is a God who keeps 
the black man and the white, and hurls to earth the loftiest 
realm that breaks His eternal laws. Warn the young em- 
pire, that he come not down broken and dishonored to my 
shameful tomb! Tell him that 'Justice is the unchanging, 
everlasting will to give each man his Right.' I knew it, I 
broke it — I am lost! Bid him keep it and be safe]" 



ROMANCE OF A HAMMOCK. 
Anon. 

Shady tree — babbling brook, 
Girl in hammock — reading book. 
Golden curls— tiny feet, 
Girl in hammock looks so sweet. 

Man rides past — big mustache, 
Girl in hammock makes a " mash." 

" Mash " is mutual — day is set, 
Man and maiden — married get. 

Married now a year and a day, 
Keeping house in Avenue A. 
Red-hot stove — beefsteak frying, 
Girl got married — cooking trying. 

Cheeks all burning — eyes look red, 
Girl got married — almost dead. 
Biscuit burnt up — beefsteak charry, 
Girl got married — awful sorry. 

Man comes home — tears mustache, 
Mad "as blazes — got no cash. 
Thinks of hammock — in the lane; 
Wishes maiden — back again. 



SPIRITS OF THE STORM. 211 

Maiden also — thinks of swing, 

And wants to go back too, poor thing! 

Hour of midnight — baby squawking; 
Man in bare feet — bravely walking; 
The baby yells — now the other 
Twin, he strikes up — like his brother. 
Paregoric — by the bottle 
Poured into — the baby's throttle. 

Naughty tack — points in air, 
Waiting some one's — foot to tear. 

Man in bare feet — see him there! 
O my gracious! — hear him swear! 

Raving crazy — gets his gun 
And blows his head off; 
Dead and gone. 

Pretty widow — with a book 

In the hammock — by the brook. 

Man rides past — big mustache; 
Keeps on riding — nary "mash." 



SPIRITS OF THE STORM. 
N. J. Clodfetter. 

Published by permission of the author. 

Roll, thunders, roll ! 
On the cold mist of the night, 
As I watch the streaming light, 
Lurid, blinking in the south, 
Like a mighty serpent's mouth 

Spitting fire. 
Peal on peal, the thunder's crashing, 
And the streaming lightning's flashing. 
Like great giants coming o'er us, 
Dancing to the distant chorus, 

In their ire, 

Sowing fire, 



212 SPIRITS OF THE STORM. 

From the wild sky higher, higher, 
While the heaving angry motion, 
Of a great aerial Ocean, 
Dashes cloud-built ships asunder, 
As the distant coming thunder 

Rolls, rolls, rolls, 
And shakes the great earth to the poles. 

Roll, thunders, roll! 
You awake my sleeping soul, 
To see the war in rage before me, 
And its dreadful menace o'er me, 
Lightning, 
Bightening, 
Flashing, 

Dashing: 
Thunders booming in the distance, 
Till the earth seems in resistance 
To the navies sailing higher, 
O'er the wild clouds dropping fire; 
And there he comes! the wing'd horse comes, 

Beneath great Jove, whose mighty arms 
Hurl thunder-bolts, and heaven drums 

Her awful roll of sad alarms: 
He stamps the clouds, and onward prances, 
As from him the wild lightning glances; 

By his neigh the world is shaken, 
And his hoof so fleetly dances 

That the lightning 's overtaken, 
And he feeds upon its blazing 
Shafts, as if he were but grazing; 
Stops, paws the clouds beneath his form, 
Then gallops o'er the raging storm; 
Flies on! his long disheveled mane, 
Streams wildly through the leaden plane 

Of the dull skies, 
The while the drapery of the clouds, 
Wraps this spirit as in shrouds, 
Our darting eyes 
In vague surprise 
Arise, 
And trace the wandering course 
Of heaven's fleet-foot winged horse! 



SPIRITS OF THE STORM. 213 

Roll, thunders, roll! 
As lightnings in the arching scroll, 
Streak the heavens in their flight 
By their dazzling flow of light; 
While old Neptune, all alone, 
Is sitting on his mountain throne, 

O'er the sea, 

In a mood so lonely, he 
Thrust his trident by his side, 

With such force that the great mountain 
Opens a deep cavern wide, 

And bursts forth a living fountain 
Sparkling with its silvery tide; 
And the Nereids, fifty strong, 
To the water's babbling song. 

Like fairy wands 

From Neptune's hands 
Sally from this cavern wide, 
Sailing o'er the gray cold rocks, 
With their fairy rainbow locks, 
Down upon the water's brim, 
Either way the surface skim, 
Till their taper'd fingers' tips 
Gently in the water dips; 
Then beneath the raging skies 
Neptune in his chariot flies 

O'er the sea, 
With his trident in his hand, 
In a bearing of command, 
Fitting to his majesty,. 

He calls to his daughters, 

To quit the wild waters, — 
He calls, but they heed not his word: 

Then his trident he hurls 

At his sea-nymph girls, 
But the truants — they flee from their lord. 

Unto the clouds they go 

In the whirlwinds of the storm, 
Arethusa leads the way 

Wheresoe'er the winds may blow. 

She lithely moves her graceful form 
As if she would herself survey, 
And then she rides the southern wind 



214 SPIRITS OF THE STORM. 

And bids her sister follow, 
And leave old Neptune far behind, 
Lord of his mountain hollow, — 

To nurse his wrath 

And tread his path, 
And curse his fairy daughters, — 

These mountain elves 

That freed themselves 
From the lord of ocean's waters. 
He grasped a trident in his hand 
That mystic rose at his command, 
And wildly blew till the great ocean 

Trembled like an aspen-tree, 
And winds that were in wild commotion, 

Whirling through immensity, 
He'd by his magic art control 
And gather in a secret scroll 
And hurl them at his Dorian daughters 
O'er the heaving angry waters, 
Till the growling thunders roll, 
Giving spleen to Neptune's soul 
As he sees them dart through air, 
Daughters fifty, all so fair, 

Free from the Ionian Sea, 

Designed to be 

Their destiny. 

Roll, thunders, roll! 
Till many church-bells toll 

Once in unity, 
Touched by the enchanting wand 

Of his majesty, 
Who's arbiter of sea and land, 
And marks each destiny. 

But there! 

The fair-faced nymphs of air, 
Metamorphosed from the Dorian sea, 

O'er the waters, 

Lovely daughters, 
Through the misty clouds they flee, 

Their fairy forms 

Float o'er the storms 
So swift and magic'ly 



GARFIELD. 215 

That on the wings of the long streaming flashes 
They ride, and they dance their delight, 

Wear crowns of electrical dashes, 
And bask in their dazzling light. 

Where the deep-voiced thunder peals louder, 

And the long-sheeted lightnings play fast, 
We see them peep through the dark cloud, or 

Ride off on a sulphurous blast. 
When the storm to its fullness is raging, 

And all Nature at war seems to be, 
The cloud-sphere is then more engaging 

To them than a wild breaking sea. 

But now the growling, rolling, grumbling, 
Thunders in the distance mumbling, 
Fainter, fainter, dying, dying, 
And the lightning dimmer flying, 
O'er the dark cloud westward lying, 
As the morning in her glory 
Bursts forth like an ancient story, — 
The while the resting sunbeams light 
On this dark cloud of the night, 
And the arching rainbow's given 
To the spirit-forms of heaven, 

In a moment unrolled 

In its pinions of gold, 

And quick as its birth 

It o'ercircles the earth: 
And there the spirits of the storms 
Sit and rest their weary forms. 



GARFIELD. 

James C. Blaine. 

Surely, if happiness can ever come from the honors or 
triumphs of this world, on that quiet July morning James 
A. Garfield may well have been a happy man. No fore- 
boding of evil haunted him; no slightest premonition of 
danger clouded his sky. His terrible fate was upon him in 
an instant. One moment he stood erect, strong, confident 
in the years stretching peacefully out before him. The next 



2l6 GARFIELD. 

he lay wounded, bleeding, helpless, doomed to weary weeks 
of torture, to silence, and the grave. 

Great in life, he was surpassingly great in death. For no 
cause, in the very frenzy of wantonness and wickedness, by 
the red hand of murder, he was thrust from the full tide of 
this world's interest, from its hopes, its aspirations, its 
victories, into the visible presence of death — and he did not 
quail. Not alone for the one short moment in which, 
stunned and dazed, he could give up life, hardly aware of its 
relinquishment, but through days of deadly languor, through 
weeks of agony, that was not less agony because silently 
borne, with clear sight and calm courage, he looked into 
his open grave. What blight and ruin met his anguished 
eyes, whose lips may tell — what brilliant, broken plans, what 
baffled, high ambitions, what sundering of strong, warm, 
manhood's friendships, what bitter rendering of sweet house- 
hold ties! Behind him a proud, expectant nation, a great 
host of sustaining friends, a cherished and happy mother, 
wearing the full, rich honors of her early toil and tears; 
the wife of his youth, whose whole life lay in his; the little 
boys not yet emerged from childhood's day of frolic; the 
fair, young daughter; the sturdy sons just springing into 
closest companionship, claiming every day and every day 
rewarding a father's love and care; and in his heart the 
eager, rejoicing power to meet all demand. Before him, 
desolation and great darkness ! And his soul was not shaken. 
His countrymen were thrilled with instant, profound, and 
universal sympathy. 

Masterful in his mortal weakness, he became the center 
of a nation's love, enshrined in the prayers of a world. But 
all the love and all the sympathy could not share with him 
his suffering. He trod the wine-press alone. With unfal- 
tering front he faced death. With unfailing tenderness he 
took leave of life. Above the domoniac hiss of the assassin's 
bullet he heard the voice of God. With simple resignation 
he bowed to the Divine decree. 

As the end drew near, his early craving for the sea returned. 
The stately mansion of power had been to him the weari- 
some hospital of pain, and he begged to be taken from its 
prison walls, from its oppressive, stifling air, from its home- 
lessness and hopelessness. Gently, silently, the love of a 
great nation bore the pale sufferer to the longed-for healing 
of the sea, to live or to die, as God should will, within sight 



FORGIVE AND FORGET. 217 

of its heaving billows, within sound of its manifold voices. 
With wan, fevered face tenderly lifted to the cooling breeze, 
he looked out wistfully upon the ocean's changing wonders; 
on its fair sails, whitening in the morning light; on its rest- 
less waves, rolling shoreward to break and die beneath the 
noonday sun; on the red clouds of evening, arching low to 
the horizon; on the serene and shining pathway of the stars. 
Let us think that his dying eyes read a mystic meaning 
which only the rapt and parting soul may know. Let us 
believe that in the silence of the receding world he heard 
the great waves breaking on a further shore, and felt already 
upon his wasted brow the breath of the eternal morning. 



FORGIVE AND FORGET. 
M. F. Tupper. 

When streams of unkindness as bitter as gall, 

Bubble up from the heart to the tongue, 
And Meekness is writhing in torment and thrall, 

By the hands of Ingratitude wrung — 
In the heat of injustice, unwept and unfair, 

While the anguish is festering yet, 
None, none but an angel of God can declare, 

"I now can forgive and forget." 

But, if the bad spirit is chased from the heart, 

And the lips are in penitence steeped, 
With the wrong so repented the wrath will depart, 

Though scorn on injustice were heaped; 
For the best compensation is paid for all ill, 

When the cheek with contrition is wet, 
And every one feels it is possible still 

At once to forgive and forget. 

To forget? It is hard for a man with a mind, 

However his heart may forgive, 
To blot out all insults and evils behind, 

And but for the future to live: 
Then how shall it be? for at every turn 

Recollection the spirit shall fret, 
Aud the ashes of injury smolder and burn, 

Though we strive to forgive and forget. 



215 SOLILOQUY OF THE GAMBLERS WIFE. 

Oh, hearken! my tongue shall the riddle unseal, 

And mind shall be partner with heart, 
While thee to thyself I bid conscience reveal, 

And show thee how evil thou art: 
Remember thy follies, thy sins, and — thy crimes, 

How vast is that infinite debt! 
Yet Mercy hath seven by seventy times 

Been swift to forgive and forget! 

Brood not on insults or injuries old, 

For thou art injurious too — 
Count not their sum till the total is told, 

For thou art unkind and untrue: 
And if all thy harms are forgotten, forgiven, 

Now mercy with justice is met; 
Oh, who would not gladly take lessons of heaven, 

Nor learn to forgive and forget? 

Yes, yes; let a man when his enemy weeps, 

Be quick to receive him a friend; 
For thus on his head in kindness he heaps 

Hot coals — to refine and amend; 
And hearts that are Christian more eagerly yearn, 

As a nurse on her innocent pet, 
Over lips that, once bitter, to penitence turn, 

And whisper, Forgive and Forget. 



SOLILOQUY OF THE GAMBLER'S WIFE. 

Coates. 

"Dark is the night! How dark! No light! No fire! 
Cold on the hearth, the last faint sparks expire! 
Shivering, I watch by the cradle side 
For him, who pledged his love! Last year a bride! 

"Hark! 'Tis his footstep! No!— 'Tis past!— Tis gone! 
Tick! — Tick! — How wearily the time crawls on! 
Why should he leave me thus? — He once was kind! 
And I believed 'twould last!— How mad! — How blind! 

" Rest thee, my babe! — Rest on! — 'Tis hunger's cry! 
Sleep! — for there is no food! — The font is dry! 



PLEASURES OF HOPE. 210. 

Famine and cold their wearying work have done: 

My heart must break! And thou! — The clock strikes one, 

"Hush! 'tis the dice-box! Yes! he's there! he's there! 
For this! — for this he leaves me to despair! 
Leaves love! leaves truth! his wife! his child! for what? 
The wanton's smile — the villain — and the sot! 

" Yet I'll not curse him! No! 'tis all in vain! 

'Tis long to wait, but sure he'll come again! 

And I could starve, and bless him, but for you, 

My child! — his child! Oh, fiend! — The clock strikes two.' 

I Hark! How the sign-board creaks! The blast howls by! 
Moan! moan! A dirge swells through the cloudy sky! 
Ha! 'tis his knock! he comes! — he comes once more! 
'Tis but the lattice flaps! My hope is o'er! 

" Can he desert us thus! He knows I stay, 
Night after night, in loneliness, to pray 
For his return, — and yet he sees no tear! 
No! no! It cannot be! He will be here! 

I Nestle more closely, dear one, to my heart! 
Thou'rt cold! Thou'rt freezing! But we will not part! 
Husband! — I die! — Father! — It is not he! 
Oh, God! protect my child! " They're dead! The clock 
struck three. 



PLEASURES OF HOPE. 
Campbell. 

At summer's eve, when heavens aerial bow 
Spans, with bright arch, the glittering hills below, 
Why, to yon mountain, turns the musing eye, 
Whose sun-bright summit mingles with the sky? 
Why do those hills, of shadowy tint, appear 
More sweet than all the landscape smiling near?. 
'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, 
And robes the mountain with its azure hue. 

Thus, with delight, we linger to survey 

The promised joys of life's unmeasured way; 



220 THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

Thus, from afar, each dim discovered scene 
More pleasing seems, than all the past has been; 
And every form that fancy can repair 
From dark oblivion, glows divinely there. 

What potent spirit guides the raptured eye, 

To pierce the shades of dim futurity? 

Can wisdom lend, with all her boasted power, 

The pledge of joy's anticipated hour? 

Ah, no! she darkly sees the fate of man, 

Her dim horizon bounded to a span; 

Or if she holds an image to the view, 

'Tis nature x pictured too severely true. 

With thee, sweet Hope, resides the heavenly light, 
That pours remotest rapture on the sight; 
Thine is the charm of life's bewildered way, 
That calls each slumbering passion into play. 

Eternal Hope! when yonder spheres sublime 
Pealed their first notes to sound the march of time, 
Thy joyous youth began, but not to fade; 
When all the sister planets have decayed, 
When, wrapt in fire, the realms of ether glow, 
And heaven's last thunder shakes the world below,- 
Thou undismayed, shalt o'er the ruins smile, 
And light thy torch at nature's funeral pile. 



THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 
John Greenleaf Whittier. 

Gray searcher of the upper air! 

There's sunshine on thy ancient walls — ■ 
A crown upon the forehead bare — 

A flashing on thy water-falls — 
A rainbow glory in the cloud, 
Upon thy awful summit bowed, 

Dim relic of the recent storm! 
And music, from the leafy shroud 
Which wraps in green thy giant form, 



THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 221 

Mellowed and softened from above, 

Steals down upon the listening ear, 
Sweet as the maiden's dream of love, 

With soft tones melting on her ear. 

The time has been, gray mountain, when 

Thy shadows veiled the red man's home; 
And over crag and serpent den, 
And wild gorge, where the steps of men 

In chase or battle might not come, 
The mountain eagle bore on high 

The emblem of the free of soul; 
And midway in the fearful sky 
Sent back the Indian's battle-cry, 

Or answered to the thunder's roll. 

The wigwam fires have all burned out — 

The moccasin hath left no track — 
Nor wolf nor wild-deer roam about 

The Saco or the Merrimack, 
And thou that liftest up on high 
Thine awful barriers of the sky, 

Art not the haunted mount of old, 
When on each crag of blasted stone 
Some mountain-spirit found a throne, 

And shrieked from out the thick cloud-fold, 
And answered to the Thunderer's cry 
When rolled the cloud of tempest by, 
And jutting rock and riven branch 
Went down before the avalanche. 

The Father of our people then 

Upon thy awful summit trod, 
And the red dwellers of the glen 

Bowed down before the Indian's God. 
There, when His shadow veiled the sky, 

The Thunderer's voice was long and loud, 
And the red flashes of His eye 

Were pictured on the o'erhanging cloud. 

The Spirit moveth there no more, 
The dwellers of the hill have gone, 



:22 THE INDIAN S TALE. 

The sacred groves are trampled o'er, 
And footprints mar the altar-stone. 
The white man climbs thy tallest rock 

And hangs him from the mossy steep, 
Where, trembling to the cloud-fire's shock, 
Thy ancient prison-walls unlock, 
And captive waters leap to light, 
And dancing down from height to height, 
Pass inward to the far-off deep. 

Oh, sacred to the Indian seer, 

Gray altar of the days of old! 
Still are thy rugged features dear, 
As when unto my infant ear 

The legends of the past were told. 
Tales of the downward sweeping flood, 
When bowed like reeds thy ancient wood,— ■ 

Of armed hand and spectral form, 
Of giants in their misty shroud, 
And voices calling long and loud 

In the drear pauses of the storm! 

Farewell! The red man's face is turned 

Toward another hunting ground; 
For where the council-fire has burned, 

And o'er the sleeping warrior's mound 
Another fire is kindled now: 
Its light is on the white man's brow! 

The hunter race have passed away — 
Ay, vanished like the morning mist, 
Or dew-drops by the sunshine kissed, — 

And wherefore should the red man stay? 



THE INDIAN'S TALE. 
By J. G. Whittier. 

The War-God did not wake to strife— 

The strong men of our forest land, 
No red hand grasped the battle-knife 

At Areouski's high command: — 
We held no war-dance by the dim 

And red light of the creeping flame; 
Nor warrior yell, nor battle hymn 

Upon the midnight breezes came. 



THE INDIAN S TALE. 223 

There was no portent in the sky, 

No shadow on the round, bright sun, 
With light and mirth and melody 

The long, fair summer days came on. 
We were a happy people then, 

Rejoicing in our hunter mood; 
No foot-prints of the pale-faced men 

Had marred our forest solitude. 

The land was ours — this glorious land — 

With all its wealth of wood and streams; 
Our warriors strong of heart and hand, 

Our daughters beautiful as dreams. 
When wearied at the thirsty noon, 

We knelt us where the spring gushed up, 
To taste our Father's blessed boon — 

Unlike the white man's poison cup. 

There came unto my father's hut 

A wan, weak creature of distress; 
The red man's door is never shut 

Against the lone and shelterless. 
And when he knelt before his feet, 

My father led the stranger in; 
He gave him of his hunter meat — 

Alas! it was a deadly sin! 

The stranger's voice was not like ours — 

His face at first was sadly pale, 
Anon 'twas like the yellow flowers 

Which tremble in the meadow gale: 
And when he laid him down to die, 

And murmured of his fatherland, 
My mother wiped his tearful eye, 

My father held his burning hand! 

He died at last — the funeral yell 

Rang upward from his burial sod, 
And the old Powwah knelt to tell 

The tidings to the. white man's God! 
The next day came — my father's brow 

Grew heavy with a fearful pain, 
He did not take his hunting-bow — 

He never sought the woods again! 



2 24 DARKNESS. 

He died even as the white man died; 

My mother, she was smitten too; 
My sisters vanished from my side, 

Like diamonds from the sunlit dew. 
And then we heard the Powwahs say 

That God had sent his angel forth 
To sweep our ancient tribes away, 

And poison and unpeople Earth. 

And it was so: from day to day 

The spirit of the Plague went on — 
And those at morning blithe and gay 

Were dying at the set of sun. 
They died — our free, bold hunters died— 

The living might not give them graves, 
Save when along the water-side 

They cast them to the hurrying waves. 

The carrion crow, the ravenous beast, 

Turned loathing from the ghastly dead; 
Well might they shun the funeral feast 

By that destroying angel spread! 
One after one the red men fell, 

Our gallant war-tribe passed away, 
And I alone am left to tell 

The story of its swift decay. 

Alone — alone — a withered leaf, 

Yet clinging to its naked bough; 
The pale race scorn the aged chief, 

And I will join my fathers now. 
The spirits of my people bend 

At midnight from the solemn West, 
To me their kindly arms extend, 

To call me to their home of rest! 



DARKNESS. 
Lord Byron. 

I had a dream, which was not all a dream. 
The bright sun was extinguished, and the stars 
Did wander, darkling, in the eternal space, 
Rayless and pathless, and the icy earth 



DARKNESS. 225 

Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air. 

Morn came, and went — and came, and brought no day, 

And men forgot their passions, in the dread 

Of this their desolation; and all hearts 

Were chilled into a selfish prayer for light. 

And they did live by watch-fires; and the thrones, 

The palaces of crowned kings, the huts, 

The habitations of all things which dwell, 

Were burnt for beacons: cities were consumed, 

And men were gathered round their blazing homes, 

To look once more into each other's face. 

Happy were those who dwelt within the eye 

Of the volcanoes and their mountain torch. 

A fearful hope was all the world contained: 

Forests were set on fire; but, hour by hour, 

They fell and faded; and the crackling trunks 

Extinguished with a crash — and all was black. 

The brows of men, by their despairing light, 

Wore an unearthly aspect, as, by fits, 

The flashes fell upon them. Some lay down, 

And hid their eyes, and wept; and some did rest 

Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled; 

And others hurried to and fro, and fed 

Their funeral piles with fuel, and looked up, 

With mad disquietude, on the dull sky, 

The pall of a past world; and then again 

With curses, cast them down upon the dust, 

And gnashed their teeth, and howled. The wild birds 

shrieked 
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground, 
And flap their useless wings: the wildest brutes 
Came tame, and tremulous; and vipers crawled 
And twined themselves among the multitude, 
Hissing, but stingless — they were slain for food. 

And War, which for a moment was no more, 

Did glut himself again: — a meal was bought 

With blood, and each sat sullenly apart, 

Gorging himself in gloom; no love was left; 

All earth was but one thought — and that was death, 

Immediate and inglorious; and the pang 

Of famine fed upon all entrails. Men 



226 DARKNESS. 

Died; and their bones were tombless as their flesh 
The meager by the meager were devoured. 
Even dogs assailed their masters, — all save one, 
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept 
The birds, and beasts, and famished men at bay, 
Till hunger clung them, or the drooping dead . 
Lured their lank jaws: himself sought out no food, 
But, with a piteous, and perpetual moan, 
And a quick, desolate cry, licking the hand 
Which answered not with a caress — he died. 

The crowd was famished by degrees. But two 

Of an enormous city did survive, 

And they were enemies. They met beside 

The dying embers of an altar- place, 

Where had been heaped a mass of holy things 

For an unholy usage. They raked up, 

And, shivering, scraped with their cold, skeleton hands 

The feeble ashes ; and their feeble breath 

Blew for a little life, and made a flame, 

Which was a mockery. Then they lifted 

Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld 

Each other's aspects — saw, and shrieked, and died; 

Even of their mutual hideousness they died, 

Unknowing who he was, upon whose brow 

Famine had written Fiend. 

The world was void: 
The populous and the powerful was a lump, 
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless: 
A lump of death, a chaos of hard clay. 
The rivers, lakes, and ocean, all stood still, 
And nothing stirred within their silent depths. 
Ships, sailorless, lay rotting on the sea, 
And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropped 
They slept on the abyss, without a surge, — 
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave; 
The moon, their mistress, had expired before; 
The winds were withered in the stagnant air. 
And the clouds perished: Darkness had no need 
Of aid from them — she was the universe. 



VALUABLE HINTS FOR STUDENTS. 227 

VALUABLE HINTS FOR STUDENTS. 
Todd. 

The human mind is the brightest display of the power 
and skill of the Infinite mind with which we are acquainted. 
It is created and placed in this world to be educated for a 
higher state of existence. Here its faculties begin to unfold, 
and those mighty energies, which are to bear it forward to 
unending ages, begin to discover themselves. The object of 
training such a mind should be, to enable the soul to fulfill 
her duties well, here, and to stand on high vantage-ground, 
when she leaves this cradle of her being, an eternal exist- 
ence beyond the grave. 

Most students need encouragement to sustain, instruction 
to aid, and directions to guide them. Few, probably, ever 
accomplish any thing like as much as they expected or 
ought; and it is thought one reason is, that they waste a 
vast amount of time in acquiring that experience which 
they need. 

The reader will please bear in mind, that the only object 
here contemplated is, to throw out such hints and cautions, 
and to give such specific directions, as will aid him to be- 
come all that the fond hopes of his friends anticipate, and 
all that his own heart ought to desire. Doubtless, multi- 
tudes are now in the process of education, who will never 
reach any tolerable standard of excellence. Probably some 
never could; but in most cases, they might. The exceptions 
are few. In most cases young men do feel a desire, more 
or less strong, of fitting themselves for respectability and 
usefulness. 

You may converse with any man, however distinguished 
for attainments, or habits of applications, or power of using 
what he knows, and he will sigh over the remembrance of the 
past, and tell you, that there have been many fragments of 
time which he has wasted, and many opportunities which he 
has lost forever. If he had only seized upon the fleeting 
advantages, and gathered up the fragments of time, he might 
have pushed his researches out into new fields, and, like the 
immortal Bacon, have amassed vast stores of knowledge. 

The mighty minds that have gone before us, have left 
treasures for our inheritance; and the choicest gold is to be 
had for the digging. Hence, all that you ever have, must be 



228 VALUABLE HINTS FOR STUDENTS. 

the result of labor — hard, untiring labor. You have friends 
to cheer you on; you have books and teachers to aid you, 
and multitudes of" helps. But, after all, disciplining and 
educating your mind, must be your own work. No one can 
do this but yourself; and nothing in this world is of any 
worth, which has not labor and toil as its price. 

The first and great object of education is, to discipline 
the mind. Make it the first object to be able to fix and 
hold your attention upon your studies. He who can do 
this, has mastered many and great difficulties; and he who 
cannot do it, will in vain look for success in any department 
of study. To effect any purpose of study, the mind must be 
concentrated. Patience, too, is a virtue, kindred to atten- 
tion; and without it, the mind cannot be said to be dis- 
ciplined. Patient labor and investigation are not only 
essential to success in study, but are an unfailing guarantee 
to success. 

In addition to attention and patient perseverance, the 
student should learn to think and act for himself. True 
orginality consists in doing things well, and doing them in 
our way. A mind, half-educated, is generally imitating 
others; and no man was ever great by imitation. Let it 
therefore be remembered, that we cannot copy greatness or 
goodness by any effort. We must acquire them, if ever 
attained, by our own patience and diligence. 

Students are also in danger of neglecting the memory. 
This is a faculty, of mind too valuable to be neglected; for 
by it wonders are sometimes accomplished. He who has a 
memory, that can seize with an iron grasp, and retain what 
he reads, — the ideas, simply, without the language, and judg- 
ment to compare and balance, — will scarcely fail of being 
distinguished. Why has that mass of thought, observation, 
and experience, which is embodied in books by the multi- 
tude of minds which have gone before us, been gathered, if 
not that we may use it, and stand on high ground and push 
our way still further into the boundless regions of knowl- 
edge? Memory is the grand store-house of the mind, capa- 
ble both of vast improvement and enlarged capacity in 
proportion as it is properly cultivated. 



HERVE RIEL. 229 

HERVE RIEL. 

Robert Browning. 

On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, 

Did the English fight the French — woe to France ! 
And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue. 
Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks 
pursue, 
Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the Ranee, 
With the English fleet in view. 
'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full 
chase, 
First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Dam- 
freville, 

Close on him fled, great and small, 
Twenty-two good ships in all; 
And they signaled to the place, 
" Help the winners of a race ! 
Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick — or, quicker 
still, 

Here's the English can and will ! " 
Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leaped on 
board; 
" Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to 
pass?" laughed they; 
" Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred 

and scored, 
Shall the ' Formidable ' here, with her twelve and eighty guns, 
Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way, 
Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, 
And with flow at fall beside ? 
Now 'tis slackest ebb of tide. 
Reach the mooring ! Rather say, 
While rock stands or water runs, 
Not a ship will leave the bay ! " 
Then was called a council straight; 
Brief and bitter the debate; 
r Here's the English at our heels; would you have them 

take in tow 
All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, 
For a prize to Plymouth sound ? — 
Better run the ships aground ! " 



23O HERVE RIEL. 

(Ended Damfrcville his speech), 
" Not a minute more to wait ! 
Let the captains all and each 
Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach ! 
France must undergo her fate. 
Give the word! " — But no such word 
Was ever spoke or heard; 
For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all 
these — 
A captain? A lieutenant? A mate — first, second, third? 
No such man of mark, and meet 
With his betters to compete! 
But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the 
fleet — 
A poor coasting pilot he, Herve Riel the Croisickese. 
And " What mockery or malice have we here?" cries Herve 
Riel; 
"Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools 
or rogues? 
Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, 

tell 
On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell, 

'Twixt the offing here and Greve, where the river dis- 
embogues? 
Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for? 
Morn and eve, night and day, 
Have I piloted your bay, 
Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor. 
Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than 

fifty Hogues! 
Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me, there's 
a way! 

Only let me lead the line, 

Have the biggest ship to steer, 
Get this ' Formidable ' clear, 
Make the others follow mine, 
And I lead them most and least by a passage I know well, 
Right to Solidor, past Greve, 

And there lay them safe and sound; 
And if one ship misbehave — 

Keel so much as grate the ground — 
Why, I've nothing but my life; here's my head! " cries 
Herve Riel. 



HERVE RIEL. 23 1 

Not a minute more to wait! 
" Steer us in, then, small and great! 
Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron! " cried its 
chief. 

"Captains, give the sailor place! 

He is admiral, in brief." 
Still the north wind, by God's grace; 
See the noble fellows face 
As the big ship, with a bound, 
Clears the entry like a hound, 
Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide seas 
profound! 

See, safe through shoal and rock, 
How they follow in a flock! 
Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the 
ground, 

Not a spar that comes to grief! 
The peril, see, is past, 
All are harbored to the last, 
And just as Herve Riel hollas " Anchor!" — sure as fate, 
Up the English come, too late. 
So the storm subsides to calm; 
They see the green trees wave 
On the heights o'erlooking Greve; 
Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. 
" Just our rapture to enhance, 

Let the English rake the bay, 
Gnash their teeth and glare askance 
As they cannonade away! 
'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Ranee! " 
Now hope succeeds despair on each captain's countenance! 
Out burst all with one accord, 
"This is Paradise for hell! 
Let France, let France's king, 
Thank the man that did the thing! " 
What a shout, and all one word, 

"Herve Riel!" 
As he stepped in front once more, 
Not a symptom of surprise 
In the frank blue Breton eyes — 
Just the same man as before. 
Then said Damfreville, " My friend, 
I must speak out at the end, 



232 HERVE RIEL. 

Though I find the speaking hard; 
Praise is deeper than the lips, 
You have saved the king his ships, 

You must name your own reward. 
Faith, our sun was near eclipse! 
Demand whate'er you will, 
France remains your debtor still. 
Ask to heart's content, and have! or my name's not Dam- 
freville." 

Then a beam of fun outbroke 
On the bearded mouth that spoke, 
As the honest heart laughed through 
Those frank eyes of Breton blue: 
" Since I needs must say my say, 
Since on board the duty's done, 
And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a 
run? — 

Since 'tis ask and have, I may — 

Since the others go ashore — 
Come! A good whole holiday! 
Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle 
Aurore! " 

That he asked, and that he got — nothing more. 
Name and deed alike are lost; 
Not a pillar nor a post 
In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell: 
Not a head in white and black 
On a single fishing-smack, 
In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack 
All that France saved from the fight whence England 
bore the bell. 

Go to Paris; rank on rank 

Search the heroes flung pell-mell 
On the Louvre, face and flank; 
You shall look long enough ere you come to Herve Riel. 
So, for better and for worse, 
Herve Riel, accept my verse! 
In my verse, Herve Riel, do thou once more 
Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife, the Belle 
Aurore! 



HANNIBAL TO HIS ARMY. 233 

HANNIBAL TO HIS ARMY. 

Abridgvient from Livy . 

Here, soldiers, you must either conquer or die! On the 
right and left two seas inclose you, and you have no ship to 
fly to for escape. The river Po around you — the Po, larger 
and more impetuous than the Rhone — the Alps behind, 
scarcely passed by you when fresh and vigorous, hem you 
in. Here Fortune has granted you the termination of your 
labors; here she will bestow a reward worthy of the service 
you have undergone. All the spoils that Rome has amassed 
by so many triumphs will be yours. Think not that, in pro- 
portion as this war is great in name, the victory will be 
difficult. From the Pillars of Hercules, from the ocean, 
from the remotest limits of the world, over mountains and 
rivers, you have advanced victorious through the fiercest 
nations of Gaul and Spain. And with whom are you now 
to fight? With a raw army, which this very summer was 
beaten, conquered, and surrounded! an army unknown to 
their leader and he to them! Shall I compare myself, 
almost born and certainly bred in the tent of my father, that 
illustrious- commander — myself, the conqueror not only of 
the Alpine Nations but of the Alps themselves — myself, 
who was the pupil of you all before I became your com- 
mander — to this six months general? or shall I compare his 
army with mine ? 

On what side soever I turn my eyes I behold, all full of 
courage and strength, a veteran infantry; a most gallant 
cavalry; you, our allies, most faithful and valiant; you, 
Carthaginians, whom not only your country's cause but the 
justest anger impels to battle. The valor, the confidence of 
invaders are ever greater than those of the defensive party. 
As the assailants in this war, we pour down, with hostile 
standards, upon Italy. We bring the war. Suffering, in- 
jury, and indignity fire our minds. First they demanded 
me, your leader, for punishment; and then all of you, who 
had laid siege to Saguntum. And, had we been given up, 
they would have visited us with the severest tortures. Cruel 
and haughty nation! Everything must be yours, and at 
your disposal! You are to prescribe to us with whom we 
shall have war, with whom peace! You are to shut us up 
by the boundaries of mountains and rivers, which we must 



THE CONTRAST : OR PEACE AND WAR. 234 

not pass ! But you— you are not to observe the limits your, 
selves have appointed ! " Pass not the Iberus ! " What 
next ! " Saguntum is on the Iberus. You must not move 
a step in any direction ! " Is it a small thing that you have 
deprived us of our most ancient provinces, Sicily and Sar- 
dinia? Will you take Spain also? Should we yield Spain, 
you will cross over into Africa. Will cross, did 1 say ? 
They have sent the two Consuls of this year, one to Africa, 
the other to Spain. 

Soldiers, there is nothing left to us, in any quarter, but 
what we can vindicate with our swords. Let those be cow- 
ards who have something to look back upon : whom, flying 
through safe and unmolested roads, their own country will 
receive. There is a necessity for us to be brave. There is 
no alternative but victory or death ! and, if it must be death, 
who would not rather encounter it in battle than in flight ? 
The immortal gods could give no stronger incentive to vic- 
tory. Let but these truths be fixed in your minds, and 
once again, I proclaim, you are conquerors ! 



THE CONTRAST : OR PEACE AND WAR. 
London Athenaeum. 

PEACE. 

Lovely art thou, O Peace ! and lovely are thy children, 
and lovely are the prints of thy footsteps in the green 
valleys. 

Blue wreaths of smoke ascend through the trees, and 
betray the half-hidden cottage ; the eye contemplates well- 
thatched ricks, and barns bursting with plenty : the peasant 
laughs at the approach of winter. 

White houses peep through the trees ; cattle stand cool- 
ing in the pool ; the casement of the farm-house is covered 
with jessamine and honeysuckle ; the stately greenhouse 
exhales the perfume of summer climates. 

Children climb the green mound of the rampart, and ivy 
holds together the half-demolished buttress. 

The old men sit at their doors ; the gossip leans over her 
counter ; the children shout and frolic in the streets. 

The housewife's stores of bleached linen, whiter than 



235 THE CONTRAST : OR PEACE AND WAR. 

snow, are laid up with fragrant herbs ; they are the pride 
of the matron, the toil of many a winter's night. 

The wares of the merchant are spread abroad in the 
shops, or stored in the high-piled warehouses ; the labor of 
each profits all ; the inhabitant of the north drinks the 
fragrant herb of China ; the peasant's child wears the webs 
of Hindostan. 

The lame, the blind, and the aged repose in hospitals : 
the rich, softened by prosperity, pity the poor ; the poor, 
disciplined into order, respect the rich. 

Justice is dispensed to all. Law sits steady on her 
throne, and the sword is her servant. 

WAR. 

They have rushed through like a hurricane ; like an army 
of locusts they have devoured the earth ; the war has fallen 
like a water-spout, and deluged the land with blood. 

The smoke rises not through the trees, for the honors of 
the grove are fallen, and the hearth of the cottager is cold ; 
but it rises from villages burned with fire, and from warm 
ruins spread over the now naked plain. 

The ear is filled with the confused bellowing of oxen, and 
sad bleating of overdriven sheep ; they are swept from their 
peaceful plains ; with shouting and goading are they driven 
away : the peasant folds his arms, and resigns his faithful 
fellow-laborers. 

The farmer weeps over his barns consumed by fire, and 
his demolished roof, and anticipates the driving of the winter 
snows. 

On that rising ground, where the green turf looks black 
with fire, yesterday stood a noble mansion ; the owner had 
said in his heart : " Here will I spend the evening of my 
days, and enjoy the fruit of my years of toil ; my name shall 
descend with mine inheritance, and my children's children 
shall sport under the trees which I have planted." The 
fruit of his years of toil is swept away in a moment ; 
wasted, not enjoyed ; and the evening of his days is left 
desolate. 

The temples are profaned ; the soldier's curse resounds 
in the house of God ; the marble pavement is trampled by 
iron hoofs ; horses neigh beside the altar. 

Law and order are forgotten ; violence and rapine are 
abroad ; the golden cords of society are loosed. 



236 HOHENLINDEN. 

Here are the shriek of woe and the cry of anguish ; and 
there is suppressed indignation bursting the heart with 
silent despair. 

The groans of the wounded are in the hospitals, and by 
the roadside, and in every thicket ; and the housewife's web, 
whiter than snow, is scarcely sufficient to stanch the blood 
of her husband and children. Look at that youth, the first- 
born of her strength ; yesterday he bounded as the roebuck; 
was glowing as the summer fruits ; active in sports, strong 
to labor ; he has passed in one moment from youth to age ; 
his comeliness is departed ; helplessness is his portion for 
the days of future years. He is more decrepit than his 
grandsire, on whose head are the snows of eighty winters ; 
but those were the snows of nature ; this is the desolation 
of man. 

Everything unholy and unclean comes abroad from its 
lurking-place, and deeds of darkness are done beneath the 
eye of day. The villagers no longer start at horrible sights; 
the soothing rites of burial are denied, and human bones 
are tossed by human hands. 

No one careth for another ; every one, hardened by mis- 
ery, careth for himself alone. 

Lo, these are what God has set before thee, child of rea- 
son ! son of woman ! unto which does thine heart incline? 



HOHENLINDEN. 

Thomas Campbell. 

On Linden, when the sun was low, 
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow ; 
And dark as winter was the flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

But Linden saw another sight, 
When the drum beat, at dead of night, 
Commanding fires of death to light 
The darkness of her scenery. 

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, 
Each horseman drew his battle-blade, 
And furious every charger neighed 
To join the dreadful revelry. 






OBLIGATIONS OF AMERICA TO ENGLAND. 237 

Then shook the hills with thunder riven, 
Then rushed the steed to battle driven, 
And louder than the bolts of Heaven 
Far flashed the red artillery. 

But redder yet that light shall glow 
On Linden's hills of stained snow, 
And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun 
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun 
Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, 
Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 

The combat deepens. On, ye brave, 
Who rush to glory, or the grave ! 
Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave, 
And charge with all thy chivalry ! 

Few, few shall part where many meet ! 
The snow shall be their winding sheet, 
And every turf beneath their feet 
Shall be a soldier's sepulcher. 






OBLIGATIONS OF AMERICA TO ENGLAND. 

Edward Everett. 

What citizen of our republic does not feel, what reflect- 
ing American does not acknowledge, the incalculable ad- 
vantages derived to this land out of the deep fountains of 
civil, intellectual, and moral truth, from which we have 
drawn in England ? What American does not feel proud 
that his fathers were the countrymen of Bacon, of Newton, 
and of Locke ? Who does not know that, while every pulse 
of civil liberty in the heart of the British empire beat warm 
and full in the bosom of our ancestors, the sobriety, the 
firmness, and the dignity with which the cause of free 
principles struggled into existence here, constantly found 
encouragement and countenance from the friends of liberty 
there ? 



238 OBLIGATIONS OF AMERICA TO ENGLAND. 

Who does not remember that, when the pilgrims went 
over the sea, the prayers of the faithful British confessors, 
in all the quarters of their dispersion, went over with them, 
while their aching eyes were strained till the stars of hope 
should go up in the western skies ! And who will ever 
forget that, in that eventful struggle which severed these 
youthful republics from the British crown, there was not 
heard, throughout our continent in arms, a voice which 
spoke louder for the rights of America, than that of Burke 
or of Chatham within the^walls of the British Parliament, 
and at the foot of the British throne ? 

No ; for myself, I can truly say that, after my native 
land, I feel a tenderness and a reverence for that of my 
fathers. The pride I take in my own country makes me 
respect that from which we are sprung. In touching the 
soil of England, I seem to return, like a descendant, to the 
old family seat ; to come back to the abode of an aged and 
venerable parent. I acknowledge this great consanguinity 
of nations. The sound of my native language, beyond the 
sea, is as music to my ear, beyond the richest strains of 
Tuscan softness or Castilian majesty. 

I am not yet in a land of strangers, while surrounded by 
the manners, the habits, and the institutions under which I 
have been brought up. I wander, delighted, through a 
thousand scenes which the historians and the poets have 
made familiar to us, of which the names are interwoven 
with our earliest associations. I tread with reverence the 
spots where I can retrace the footsteps of our suffering 
fathers ; the pleasant land of their birth has a claim on 
my heart. It seems to me a classic, yea, a holy land, — rich 
in the memory of the great and good, the champions and 
the martyrs of liberty, the exiled heralds of truth ; and 
richer, as the parent of this land of promise in the 
West. 

I am not — I need not say I am not — the panegyrist of 
England. I am not dazzled by her riches, nor awed by her 
power. The scepter, the miter, and the coronet — stars, 
garters, and blue ribbons — seem to me poor things for great 
men to contend for. Nor is my admiration awakened by 
her armies mustered for the battles of Europe, her navies 
overshadowing the ocean, nor her empire, grasping the 
farthest East., It is these, and the price of guilt and blood 
by which they are too often maintained, which are the cause 



SPEECH ON THE AMERICAN WAR. 239 

why no friend of liberty can salute her with undivided 
affections. 

But it is the cradle- and the refuge of free principles, 
though often persecuted ; the school of religious liberty, 
the more precious for the struggles through which it has 
passed ; the tombs of those who have reflected honor on all 
who speak the English tongue ; it is the birthplace of our 
fathers, the home of the pligrim. It is these which I love 
and venerate in England. 1 should feel ashamed of an en- 
thusiasm for Italy and Greece, did I not also feel it for a 
land like this. In an American, it would seem to me de- 
generate and ungrateful to hang with passion upon the 
traces of Homer and Virgil, and follow without emotion 
the nearer and plainer footsteps of Shakespeare and Milton. 
I should think him cold in his love for his native land, who 
felt no melting in his heart for that other native country 
which holds the ashes of his forefathers. 



SPEECH ON THE AMERICAN WAR. 
Lord Chatham. 

I rise, my Lords, to declare my sentiments on this most 
solemn and serious subject. It has imposed a load upon 
my mind, which, I fear, nothing can remove, but which 
impels me to endeavor its alleviation, by a free and unre- 
served communication of my sentiments. 

In the first part of the address I have the honor of heartily 
concurring with the noble earl who moved it. No man feels 
sincerer joy than I do ; none can offer more genuine con- 
gratulations on every accession of strength to the Protestant 
succession. I therefore join in every congratulation on the 
birth of another princess, and the happy recovery of her 
Majesty. 

But I must stop here. My courtly complaisance will 
carry me no further. I will not join in congratulation on 
misfortune and disgrace. I cannot concur in a blind and 
servile address, which approves and endeavors to sanctify 
the monstrous measures which have heaped disgrace and 
misfortune upon us. This, my Lords, is a perilous and 
tremendous moment ! It is not a time for adulation. The 
smoothness of flattery cannot now avail — cannot save us 



24O SPEECH ON THE AMERICAN WAR. 

in this rugged and awful crisis. It is now necessary to 
instruct the Throne in the language of truth. We must 
dispel the illusion and the darkness which envelop it, and 
display, in its full danger and true colors, the ruin that is 
brought to our doors. 

This, my Lords, is our duty. It is the proper function 
of this noble assembly, sitting, as we do, upon our honors in 
this house, the hereditary council of the Crown. Who is 
the minister — where is the minister, that has dared to sug- 
gest to the Throne the contrary, unconstitutional language 
this day delivered from it ? The accustomed language from 
the Throne has been application to Parliament for advice, 
and a reliance on its constitutional advice and assistance. 
As it is the right of Parliament to give, so it is the duty of 
the Crown to ask it. But on this day, and in this extreme 
momentous exigency, no reliance is reposed on our consti- 
tutional counsels ! no advice is asked from the sober and 
enlightened care of Parliament ! but the Crown, from 
itself and by itself, declares an unalterable determination 
to pursue measures — and what measures, my Lords ? The 
measures that have produced the imminent perils that 
threaten us ; the measures that have brought ruin to our 
doors. 

Can the minister of the day now presume to expect a con- 
tinuance of. support in this ruinous infatuation ! Can Par- 
liament be so dead to its dignity and its duty as to be thus 
deluded into the loss of the one and the violation of the 
other ? To give an unlimited credit and support for the 
steady perseverance in measures not proposed for our par- 
liamentary advice, but dictated and forced upon us — in 
measures, I say, my Lords, which have reduced this late 
flourishing empire to ruin and contempt ? " But yesterday, 
and England might have stood against the world ; now 
none so poor to do her reverence." I use the words of a 
poet ; but, though it be poetry, it is no fiction. It is a 
shameful truth that not only the power and strength of this 
country are wasting away and expiring, but her well-earned 
glories, her true honor, and substantial dignity are sacri- 
ficed. 

France, my Lords, has insulted you ; she has encouraged 
and sustained America ; and, whether America be wrong or 
right, the dignity of this country ought to spurn at the offi- 
cious insult of French interference. The ministers and 



SPEECH ON THE AMERICAN WAR. 24I 

ambassadors of those who are called rebels and enemies, 
are in Paris ; in Paris they. transact the reciprocal interests 
of America and France. Can there be a more mortifying 
insult ? Can even our ministers sustain a more humiliating 
disgrace ? Do they dare to resent it ? Do they presume 
even to hint a vindication of their honor, and the dignity of 
the state, by requiring the dismission of the plenipoten- 
tiaries of America ? Such is the degradation to which they 
have reduced the glories of England ! 

The people whom they affect to call contemptible rebels, 
but whose growing power has at last obtained the name of 
enemies ; the people with whom they have engaged this 
country in war, and against whom they now command our 
implicit support in every measure of desperate hostility — 
this people, despised as rebels, or acknowledged as enemies, 
are abetted against you, supplied with every military store, 
their interests consulted, and their ambassadors entertained, 
by your inveterate enemy ! and our ministers dare not in- 
terpose with dignity or effect. Is this the honor of a great 
kingdom ? Is this the indignant spirit of England, who 
" but yesterday " gave law to the house of Bourbon ? My 
Lords, the dignity of nations demands a decisive conduct 
in a situation like this. 

My Lords, this ruinous and ignominious situation, where 
we cannot act with success, nor suffer with honor, calls upon 
us to remonstrate in the strongest and loudest language of 
truth, to rescue the ear of majesty from the delusions which 
surround it. The desperate state of our arms abroad is 
in part known. I love and honor the English troops. 
No man thinks more highly of them than I do. I know 
their virtues and their valor. I know they can achieve any- 
thing except impossibilities ; and I know that the conquest 
of English America is an impossibility. 

You cannot, I venture to say, you cannot conquer Amer- 
ica. Your armies last war effected everything that could be 
effected ; and what was it ? It cost a numerous army, 
under the command of a most able general (Lord Am- 
herst), now a noble lord in this house, a long and laborious 
campaign, to expel five thousand Frenchmen from French 
America. My Lords, you cannot conquer America. What 
is your present situation there ? We do not know the worst ; 
but we know that in three campaigns, we "have done noth- 
ing and suffered much. Besides the. sufferings, perhaps 



242 THE PROGRESS OF SOCIETY. 

total loss of the Northern force, the best appointed army 
that ever took the field, commanded by Sir William Howe, 
has retired from the American lines. He was obliged to 
relinquish his attempt, and with great delay and danger 
to adopt a new and distinct plan of operations. We shall 
soon know, and in any event have reason to lament, what 
may have happened since. As to conquest, therefore, my 
Lords, I repeat, it is impossible. 

You may swell every expense and every effort still more 
extravagantly ; pile and accumulate every assistance you 
can buy or borrow ; traffic and barter with every little piti- 
ful German prince that sells and sends his subjects to the 
shambles of a foreign despot ; your efforts are forever vain 
and impotent — doubly so from this mercenary aid on which 
you rely ; for it irritates, to an incurable resentment, the 
minds of your enemies, to overrun them with the mercenary 
sons of rapine and plunder, devoting them and their pos- 
sessions to the rapacity of hireling cruelty ! If I were an 
American, as I am an Englishman, while a foreign troop 
was landed in my country, I never would lay down my 
arms— never — never — never. 



THE PROGRESS OF SOCIETY. 
William Ellery Charming. 

What a contrast does the present form with past times ! 
Not many ages ago the nation was the property of one man, 
and all its interests were staked in perpetual games of war, 
for no end but to build up his family, or to bring new terri- 
tories under his yoke. Society was divided into two classes, 
the high-born and the vulgar, separated from each other by 
a great gulf, as impassable as that between the saved and 
the lost. The people had no significance as individuals, 
but formed a mass, a machine, to be wielded at pleasure by 
their lords. In war, which was the great sport of the times, 
those brave knights, of whose prowess we hear, cased them- 
selves and their horses in armor, so as to be almost invul- 
nerable, while the common people on foot, were left, without 
protection, to be hewn in pieces or trampled down by their 
betters. 

Who, that compares the condition of Europe a few years 



THE PROGRESS OF SOCIETY. 243 

ago, with the present state of the world, but must bless God 
for the change. The grand distinction of modern times, is 
the emerging of the people from brutal degradation, the 
gradual recognition of their rights, the gradual diffusion 
among them of the means of improvement and happiness, 
the creation of a new power in the state, the power of the 
people. And it is worthy of remark, that this revolution is 
due in a great degree to religion, which, in the hands of the 
crafty and aspiring, had bowed the multitude to the dust, 
but which, in the fullness of time, began to fulfill its mission 
of freedom. 

It was religion, which, by teaching men their near relation 
to God, awakened in them the consciousness of their impor- 
tance as individuals. It was the struggle for religious 
rights, which opened men's eyes to all their rights. It was 
resistance to religious usurpation, which led men to with- 
stand political oppression. It was religious discussion, 
which roused the minds of all classes to free and vigorous 
thought. It was religion, which armed the martyr and 
patriot in England against arbitrary power, which braced 
the spirits of our fathers against the perils of the ocean and 
wilderness, and sent them to found here the freest and 
most equal state on earth. 

Let us thank God for what has been gained. But let us 
not think everything gained. Let the people feel that they 
have only started in the race. How much remains to be 
done! What a vast amount of ignorance, intemperance, 
coarseness, sensuality, may still be found in our community ! 
What a vast amount of mind is palsied and lest ! 

When we think that every house might be cheered by 
intelligence, disinterestedness, and refinement, and then 
remember in how many houses the higher powers and affec- 
tions of human nature are buried as in tombs, what a dark- 
ness gathers over society ! And how few of us are moved 
by this moral desolation ! How few understand, that to 
raise the depressed, by a wise culture, to the dignity of men, 
is the highest end of the social state ! Shame on us, that 
the worth of a fellow-creature is so little felt ! 

I would that I could speak with an awakening voice to 
the people, of their wants, their privileges, their responsi- 
bilities. I would say to them : You cannot, without guilt 
and disgrace, stop where you are. The past and the present 
call on you to advance. Let what you have gained be an 



244 ADDRESS TO THE SUN. 

impulse to something higher. Your nature is too great to 
be crushed. You were not created what you are, merely to 
toil, eat, drink, and sleep, like the inferior animals. If you 
will, you can rise. No power in society, no hardship in 
your condition can depress you, keep you down, in knowl- 
edge, power, virtue, influence, but by your own consent. 
Do not be lulled to sleep by the flatteries which you hear, 
as if your participation in the national sovereignty made 
you equal to the noblest of your race. You have many 
and great deficiencies to be remedied ; and the remedy 
lies, not in the ballot-box, not in the exercise of your politi- 
cal powers, but in the faithful education of yourselves and 
your children. These tfruths you have often heard and 
slept over. Awake ! Resolve earnestly on self-culture. 
Make yourselves worthy of your free institutions, and 
strengthen and perpetuate them by your intelligence and 
your virtues. 



ADDRESS TO THE SUN. 

Ossian. 

O thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my 
fathers ! Whence are thy beams, O sun ! thy everlasting 
light ? Thou comest forth, in thy awful beauty, and the 
stars hide themselves in the sky ; the moon, cold and pale, 
sinks in the western wave. But thou thyself movest alone : 
who can be a companion of thy course ? The oaks of the 
mountains fall ; the mountains themselves decay with years ; 
the ocean shrinks and grows again ; the moon herself is lost 
in heaven ; but thou art forever the same, rejoicing in the 
brightness of thy course. When the world is dark with 
tempests; when thunder rolls, and lightning flies; thou 
lookest in thy beauty from the clouds, and laughest at the 
storm. But to Ossian, thou lookest in vain ; for he beholds 
thy beams no more, whether thy yellow hair flows on the 
eastern clouds, or thou tremblest at the gates of the west. 
But thou art, perhaps, like me, for a season, and thy years 
will have an end. Thou shalt sleep in thy clouds, careless 
of the voice of the morning. Exult then, O son, in the 
strength of thy youth ! Age is dark and unlovely ; it is 
like the glimmering light of the moon, when it shines 



APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN. 245 

through broken clouds, and the mist is on the hills ; the 
blast of the north is on the plain, the traveler shrinks in the 
midst of his journey. 



APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN. 
Lord Byron. 

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 

There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 
There is society, where none intrudes, 

By the deep sea, and music in its roar. 

I love not man the less, but Nature more, 
From these our interviews, in which I steal 

From all I may be, or have been before, 
To mingle with the universe, and feel 
What I can ne'er express, ye cannot all conceal. 

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll ! 

Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain, 
Man marks the earth with ruin — his control 

Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery plain 

The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 

When for a moment, like a drop of rain, 
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, 
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown. 

The armaments which thunderstrike the walls 

Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, 
And monarchs tremble in their capitals ; 

The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 

Their clay creator the vain title take 
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war, — 

These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, 
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar 
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. 

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee — 
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, — what are they ? 

Thy waters wasted them while they were free, 
And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey 
The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay 



246 THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 

Has dried up realms to deserts :— not so thou, 

Unchangeable, save to thy wild waves' play — 
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow — 
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 

Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time, 
Calm or convulsed — in breeze or gale or storm, 

Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 

Dark heaving; — boundless, endless, and sublime — 
The image of Eternity — the throne 

Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime 
The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone 
Obeys thee : thou goest forth, dread, fathomless alone. 

And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy 
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 

Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy 
I wantoned with thy breakers — they to me 
Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea 

Made them a terror, — -'t was a pleasing fear ; 
For I was, as it were, a child of thee, 

And trusted to thy billows far and near, 

And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. 



THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 

Charles Sprague. 

Behold ! they come — those sainted forms, 
Unshaken through the strife of storms ; 
Heaven's winter cloud hangs coldly down, 
And earth puts on its rudest frown ; 
But colder, ruder, was the hand 
That drove them from their own fair land ; 
Their own fair land — Refinement's chosen seat, 
Art's trophied dwelling, Learning's green retreat^ 
By valor guarded, and by victory crowned, 
For all, but gentle Charity, renowned. 
With streaming eye yet steadfast heart, 
Even from that land they dared to part, 
And burst each tender tie, — 



THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 247 

Haunts, where their sunny youth was passed, 
Homes, where they fondly hoped at last 

In peaceful age to die. 
Friends, kindred, comfort, all they spurned, 

Their fathers' hallowed graves, 
And to a world of darkness turned, 

Beyond a world of waves. 

When Israel's race from bondage fled, 
Signs from on high the wanderers led ; 
But here — Heaven hung no symbol here, 
Their steps to guide, their souls to cheer ; 
They saw, through sorrow's lengthening night, 
Nought but the fagot's guilty light ; 
The cloud they gazed at was the smoke 
That round their murdered brethren broke. 

A fearful path they trod, 
And dared a fearful doom, 

To build an altar to their God, 
And find a quiet tomb. 

They come ; — that coming who shall tell ? 
The eye may weep, the heart may swell, 
But the poor tongue in vain essays 
A fitting note for them to raise. 
We hear the after-shout that rings 
For them who smote the power of kings : 
The swelling triumph all would share, 
But who the dark defeat would dare, 
And boldly meet the wrath and woe 
That wait the unsuccessful blow? 
It were an envied fate, we deem, 
To live a land's recorded theme, 

When we are in the tomb ; 
We, too, might yield the joys of home, 
And waves of winter darkness roam. 

And tread a shore of gloom, — 
Knew we those waves, through coming time, 
Should roll our names to every clime ; 
Felt we that millions on that shore 
Should stand, our memory to adore. 
But no glad vision burst in light 
Upon the Pilgrims' aching sight ; 



248 THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 

Their hearts no proud hereafter swelled ; 
Deep shadows veiled the way they held ; 
The yell of vengeance was their trump of fame, 
Their monument, a grave without a eame. 
Yet, strong in weakness, there they stand 

On yonder ice-bound rock, 
Stern and resolved, that faithful band, 
To meet Fate's rudest shock. 

In grateful adoration now, 

Upon the barren sands they bow. 

What tongue e'er woke such prayer 

As bursts in desolation there ? 

What arm of strength e'er wrought such power 

As waits to crown that feeble hour ? 

There into life an infant empire springs ! 

There falls the iron from the soul ; 

There Liberty's young accents roll 

Up to the King of kings ! 
To fair creation's farthest bound 
That thrilling summons yet shall sound ; 
The dreaming nations shall awake, 
And to their center earth's old kingdoms shake ; 

Pontiff and prince, your sway 

Must crumble from that day. 
Before the loftier throne of Heaven 
The hand is raised, the pledge is given, 
One monarch to obey, one creed to own, — 
That monarch, God ; that creed, His word alone. 

Spread out earth's holiest records here, 
Of days and deeds to reverence dear ; 
A zeal like this what pious legends tell ? 
On kingdoms built 
In blood and guilt, 
The worshipers of vulgar triumph dwell ; 
But what exploit with theirs shall page, 

Who rose to bless their kind — 
Who left their nation and their age, 
Man's spirit to unbind ? 
Who boundless seas passed o'er, 
And boldly met, in every path, 
Famine,, and frost, and savage wrath, 
To dedicate a shore, 



THE SHIPWRECK. 249 

Where Piety's meek train might breathe their vow, 
And seek their Maker with an unshamed brow ; 
Where Liberty's glad race might proudly come, 
And set up there an everlasting home ? 

O many a time it hath been told, 
The story of these men of old : 
For this fair Poetry hath wreathed 

Her sweetest, purest flower ; 
For this proud Eloquence hath breathed 

His strain of loftiest power ; 
Devotion, too, hath lingered round 
Each spot of consecrated ground, 

And hill and valley blessed — 
There, where our banished fathers strayed, 
There, where they loved and wept and prayed, 

There, where their ashes rest,— 
And never may they rest unsung, 
While Liberty can find a tongue. 
Twine, Gratitude, a wreath for them 
More deathless than the diadem, 
Who, to life's noblest end, 

Gave up life's noblest powers, 
And bade the legacy descend 

Down, down to us and ours. 



THE SHIPWRECK. 

John Wilson. 

Her giant form 
O'er wrathful surge, through blackening storm, 
Majestically calm, would go, 
'Mid the deep darkness, white as snow ! 
But gentler now the small waves glide 
Like playful lambs o'er a mountain's side ; 
So stately her bearing, so proud her array, 
The main she will traverse forever and aye. 
Many ports will exult at the gleam of her mast ! 
— Hush ! hush ! thou vain dreamer ! this hour is her last. 
Five hundred souls in one instant of dread 
Are hurried o'er the deck ; 



250 THE SHIPWRECK. 

And fast the miserable ship 

Becomes a lifeless wreck. 

Her keel hath struck on a hidden rock, 

Her planks are torn asunder, 

And down come her masts with a reeling shock, 

And a hideous crash like thunder. 

Her sails are draggled in the brine, 

That gladdened late the skies, 

And her pendant that kissed the fair moonshine 

Down many a fathom lies. 

Her beauteous sides, whose rainbow hues 

Gleamed softly from below, 

And flung a warm and sunny flush 

O'er the wreaths of murmuring snow, 

To the coral rocks are hurrying down, 

To sleep amid colors as bright as their own. 

Oh ! many a dream was in the ship 

An hour before her death ; 

And sights of home with sighs disturbed 

The sleeper's long-drawn breath. 

Instead of the murmur of the sea, 

The sailor heard the humming tree, 

Alive through all its leaves, 

The hum of the spreading sycamore 

That grows before his cottage door, 

And the swallow's song in the eaves. 

His arms inclosed a blooming boy, 

Who listened with tears of sorrow and joy 

To the dangers his father had passed ; 

And his wife — by turns she wept and smiled. 

As she looked on the father of her child 

Returned to her heart at last. 

— He wakes at the vessel's sudden roll, 

And the rush of waters is in his soul. 

Astounded, the reeling deck he paces, 

Mid hurrying forms and ghastly faces ; 

The whole ship's crew are there : 

Wailings around and overhead, 

Brave spirits stupefied or dead, 

And madness and despair. 

Now is the ocean's bosom bare, 

Unbroken as the floating air ; 

The ship hath melted quite away, 



LOCHIEL S WARNING. 25 I 

Like a struggling dream at break of day. 

No image meets my wandering eye, 

But the new-risen sun and the sunny sky. 

Though the night-shades are gone, yet a vapor dull 

Bedims the waves so beautiful ; 

While a low and melancholy moan 

Mourns for the glory that hath flown. 



LOCHIEL'S WARNING. 
Thomas Campbell. 
[Seer, Lochiel.] 

Seer. Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day 
When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array !. 
For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, 
And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight : 
They rally, they bleed for their kingdom and crown ; 
Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down ! 
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, 
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain, 
But hark ! through the fast-flashing lightning of war, 
What steed to the desert flies frantic and far ? 
'Tis thine, O Glenullin ! whose bride shall await, 
Like a love-lighted watchfire, all night at the gate. 
A steed comes at morning : no rider is there ; 
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. 
Weep, Albin ! to death and captivity led ! 
O weep ! but thy tears cannot number the dead ; 
For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave — 
Culloden, that reeks with the blood of the brave. 

Lochiel. Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling 
seer ; 
Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear, 
Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight 
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright. 

Seer. Ha ! langh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn ? 
Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn : 
Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth 
From his home in the dark-rolling clouds of the north ? 
Lo ! the death shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode 
Companionless, bearing destruction abroad ; 



252 LOCHIEL S WARNING. 

But down let him stoop from his havoc on high I 
Ah, home let him speed — for the spoiler is nigh. 
Why flames the far summit ? Why shoot to the blast 
Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast ? 
'Tis the fire shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven 
From his eyrie that beacon the darkness of heaven. 
O, crested Lochiel ! the peerless in might, 
Whose banners arise on the battlements' height, 
Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn ; 
Return to thy dwelling ! all lonely return ! 
For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, 
And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood ! 

Lochiel. False wizard, avaunt ! I have marshaled my 
clan ; 
Their swords are a thousand., their bosoms are one ! 
They are true to the last of their blood and their breath, 
And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. 
Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock ! 
Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock ! 
But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause, 
When Albin her claymore indignantly draws ; 
When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, 
Clan Ranald the dauntless and Moray the proud ; 
All plaided and plumed in their tartan array — 

Seer. Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day ! 
For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, 
But man cannot cover what God would reveal : 
'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, 
And coming events cast their shadows before. 
I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring 
With the blood-hounds that bark for thy fugitive king. 
Lo, anointed by Heaven with the vials of wrath, 
Behold where he flies on his desolate path ! 
Now, in darkness and billows, he sweeps from my sight : 
Rise ! rise ! ye wild tempests and cover his flight ! 
'Tis finished. Their thunders are hushed on the moors, 
Culloden is lost, and my country deplores. 
But where is the iron-bound prisoner ? Where ? 
For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. 
Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banished, forlorn, 
Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn ? 
Ah, no ! for a darker departure is near ; 
The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier ; 



THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE. 253 

His death-bell is tolling; O, mercy, dispel 
Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell ! 
Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs, 
And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims. 
Accursed be the fagots that blaze at his feet, 
Where his heart shall be thrown ere it ceases to beat, 
With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale — 

Lochiel. Down, soothless insulter ! I trust not the tale. 
Though my perishing ranks should be strewed in their gore, 
Like ocean-weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore, 
Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, 
While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, 
Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, 
With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe ! 
And, leaving in battle no blot on his name, 
Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame. 



THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE. 

William Edmondstoune Aytoun. 

Come hither, Evan Cameron ! Come, stand beside my knee. 
I hear the river roaring down towards the wintry sea ; 
There's shouting on the mountain-side, there's war within 

the blast, 
Old faces look upon me, old forms go trooping past ; 
I hear the pibroch wailing amidst the din of flight, 
And my dim spirit wakes again upon the verge of night. 

'Twas I that led the Highland host through wild Lochaber's 
snow, 

What time the plaided clans came down to battle with 
Montrose. 

I've told thee how the Southrons fell beneath the broad clay- 
more, 

And how we smote the Campbell clan by Inverlochy's 
shore. 

I've told thee how we swept Dundee, and tamed the Lind- 
say's pride ; 

But never have I told thee yet how the Great Marquis 
died ! 



254 THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE. 

A traitor sold him to his foes ; O deed of deathless shame ! 
I charge thee, boy, if e'er thou meet vvitn one of Assynt's 

name — 
Be it upon the mountain's side, or yet within the glen, 
Stand he in martial gear alone, or backed by armed men — 
Face him, as thou wouldst face the man who wronged thy 

sire's renown ; 
Remember of what blood thou art, and strike the catiff 

down. 

They brought him to the Watergate, hard bound with 

hempen span, 
As though they held a lion there, and not an unarmed man. 
They set him high upon a cart — the hangman rode below — 
They drew his hands behind his back, and bared his noble 

brow : 
Then, as a hound is slipped from leash, they cheered — the 

common throng, 
And blew the note with yell and shout, and bade him pass 

along. 

But when he came, though pale and wan, he looked so great 

and high, 
So noble was his manly front, so calm his steadfast eye, — 
The rabble rout forbore to shout, and each man held his 

breath, 
For well they knew the hero's soul was face to face with 

death. 
And then a mournful shudder through all the people crept, 
And some that came to scoff at him, now turned aside and 

wept. 

Had I been there with sword in hand, and fifty Camerons by, 
That day through high Dunedin's streets had pealed the 

slogan cry. 
Not all their troops of trampling horse, nor might of mailed 

men — 
Not all the rebels in the south had borne us backwards 

then ! 
Once more his foot on Highland heath had trod as free 

as air, 
Or I, and all who bore my name, been laid around him 

there. 



THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE. 255 

It might not be. They placed him next within the solemn 

hall, 
Where once the Scottish kings were throned amidst their 

nobles all. 
But there was dust of vulgar feet on that polluted floor, 
And perjured traitors filled the place where good men sate 

before. 
With savage glee came Warristoun to read the murderous 

doom, 
And then uprose the great Montrose in the middle of the 

room. 

Now by my faith as belted knight, and by the name I bear, 
And by the bright Saint Andrew's cross that waves above 

us there — 
Yea, by a greater, mightier oath, and oh, that such should 

be! — 
By that dark stream of royal blood that lies 'twixt you and 

me, — 
I have not sought in battle-field a wreath of such renown, 
Nor hoped I, on my dying day, to win a martyr's crown ! 

The morning dawned full darkly, the rain came flashing- 
down, 

And the jagged streak of the levin-bolt lit up the gloomy 
town : 

The thunder crashed across the heaven, the fatal hour was 
come, 

Vet aye broke in, with muffled beat, the 'larum of the drum. 

There was madness on the earth below, and anger in the sky, 

And young and old, and rich and poor, came forth to see 
him die. 

Ah God ! that ghastly gibbet ! how dismal 'tis to see 
The great, tall, spectral skeleton, the ladder, and the tree ! 
Hark! Hark! it is the clash of arms, the bells begin to toll — 
He is coming ! he is coming ! God's mercy on his soul ! 
One last long peal of thunder — the clouds are cleared away, 
And the glorious sun once more looks down amidst the 
dazzling day. 

He is coming ! he is coming ! — Like a bridegroom from his 

room 
Came the hero from his prison to the scaffold and the doom. 



256 THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM. 

There was glory on his forehead, there was luster in 

his eye, 
And he never walked to battle more proudly than to die : 
There was color in his visage though the cheeks of all were 

wan, 
And they marveled as they saw him pass, that great and 

goodly man ! 

A beam of light fell o'er him, like a glory round the 
shriven, 

And he climbed the lofty ladder, as it were the path to 
heaven. 

Then came a flash from out the cloud, and a stunning thun- 
der roll, 

And no man dared to look aloft, for fear was on every soul. 

There was another heavy sound, a hush and then a groan ! 

And darkness swept across the sky — the work of death was 
done ! 



THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM. 

William Cullen Bryant. 

Here are old trees — tall oaks and gnarled pines — 

That stream with gray-green mosses ; here the ground 

Was never trenched by spade, and flowers spring up 

Unsown, and die ungathered. It is sweet 

To linger here, among the flitting birds 

And leaping squirrels, wandering brooks, and winds 

That shake the leaves, and scatter, as they pass, 

A fragrance from the cedars, thickly set 

With pale blue berries. In these peaceful shades — 

Peaceful, unpruned, immeasurably old — 

My thoughts go up the long, dim path of years, 

Back to the earliest days of liberty. 

O Freedom, thou art not, as poets dream, 

A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs, 

And wavy tresses, gushing from the cap 

With which the Roman master crowned his slave 

When he took off the gyves. A bearded man, 

Armed to the teeth, art thou ; one mailed hand 



THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM. 257 

Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword ; thy brow, 

Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarred 

With tokens of old wars ; thy massive limbs 

Are strong with struggling. Power at thee has launched 

His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee ; 

They could not quench the life thou hast from Heaven. 

Merciless power has dug thy dungeon deep, 

And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires, 

Have forged thy chain ; yet while he deems thee bound, 

The links are shivered, and the prison walls 

Fall outward ; terribly thou springest forth, 

As springs the flame above a burning pile, 

And shoutest to the nations, who return 

Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies. 

Thy birthright was not given by human hands ; 

Thou wert twin-born with man. In pleasant fields, 

While yet our race was few, thou sat'st with him, 

To tend the quiet flock, and watch the stars, 

And teach the reed to utter simple airs. 

Thou, by his side, amid the tangled wood, 

Didst war upon the panther and the wolf, 

His only foes ; and thou with him didst draw 

The earliest furrows on the mountain-side, 

Soft with the deluge. Tyranny himself, 

Thy enemy, although of reverend look, 

Hoary with many years, and far obeyed, 

Is later born than thou ; and as he meets 

The grave defiance of thine elder eye, 

The usurper trembles in his fastnesses. 

Thou shalt wax stronger with the lapse of years, 

But he shall fade into a feebler age ; 

Feebler, yet subtler. He shall weave his snares, 

And spring them on thy careless steps, and clap 

His withered hands, and from their ambush call 

His hordes to fall upon thee. He shall send 

Quaint maskers, forms of fair and gallant mien, 

To catch thy gaze, and uttering graceful words 

To charm thy ear ; while his sly imps, by stealth, 

Twine round thee threads of steel, light thread on thread, 

That grow to fetters, or bind down thy arms 

With chains concealed in chaplets. 



258 THE ANGEL OF BUENA VISTA. 

O, not yet 
Mayst thou unbrace thy corselet, nor lay by 
Thy sword ; nor yet, O Freedom, close thy lids 
In slumber ; for thine enemy never sleeps, 
And thou must watch and combat till the day 
Of the new earth and heaven. But wouldst thou rest 
Awhile from tumult and the frauds of men, 
These old and friendly solitudes invite 
Thy visit. They, while yet the forest trees 
Were young upon the unviolated earth, 
And yet the moss stains on the rock were new, 
Beheld thy glorious childhood, and rejoiced. 



THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA. 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 

Speak and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward faraway, 
O'er the camp of the invaders, o'er the Mexican array, 
Who is losing ? who is winning ? are they far or come they 

near ? 
Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls the storm we 

hear. 

" Down the hills of Angostura still the storm of battle rolls ; 
Blood is flowing, men are dying ; God have mercy on their 

souls ! " 
Who is losing? who is winning ? — " Over hill and over plain, 
I see but smoke of cannon, clouding through the mountain 

rain." 

Holy Mother ! keep our brothers ! Look, Ximena, look once 

more : 
" Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling darkly as before, 
Bearing on, in strange confusion, friend and foeman, foot 

and horse, 
Like some wild and troubled torrent sweeping down its 

mountain course." 

Look forth once more, Ximena ! " Ah ! the smoke has rolled 

away ; 
And I see the Northern rifles gleaming down the ranks of 

gray. 









THE ANGELS OE BUENA VISTA. 259 

Hark ! that sudden blast of bugles ! there the troop of 

Minon wheels : 
There the Northern horses thunder, with the cannon at their 

heels. 

" Jesu, pity ! how it thickens ! now retreat and now ad- 
vance ! 

Right against the blazing cannon shivers Puebla's charging 
lance ! 

Down they go, the brave young riders ; horse and foot 
together fall ; 

Like a plowshare in the fallow, through them plows the 
Northern ball." 

Nearer came the storm and nearer, rolling fast and fright- 
ful on. 

Speak, Ximena, speak and tell us, who has lost and who has 
won ? 

" Alas ! alas ! I know not ; friend and foe together fall ; 

O'er the dying rush the living ; pray, my sisters, for them 
all ! 

" Lo ! the wind the smoke is lifting ; Blessed Mother, save 

my brain ! 
I can see the wounded crawling slowly out from heaps of 

slain. 
Now they stagger, blind and bleeding ; now they fall and 

strive to rise ; 
Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest they die before 

our eyes ! 

" Oh, my heart's love ! oh, my dear one ! lay thy poor head 

on my knee ; 
Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee ? Canst thou hear 

me ? Canst thou see ? 
Oh, my husband, brave and gentle ! oh, my Bernard, look 

once more ! 
On the blessed cross before thee ! mercy ! mercy ! all is o'er." 

Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena ; lay thy dear one down to 

rest ; 
Let his hands be meekly folded, lay the cross upon his 

breast ; 



260 THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA. 

Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeral masses said ; 
To-day, thou poor bereaved one, the living ask thy aid. 

Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and young, a soldier 

lay, 
Torn with shot and pierced with lances, bleeding slow his 

life away ; 
But as tenderly before him, the lorn Ximena knelt, 
She saw the Northern eagle shining on his pistol belt. 

With a stifled cry of horror, straight she turned away her 

head ; 
With a sad and bitter feeling looked she back upon her 

dead ; 
But she heard the youth's low moaning, and his struggling 

breath of pain, 
And she raised the cooling water to his parched lips again. 

Whispered low the dying soldier, pressed her hand, and 
faintly smiled. 

Was that pitying face his mother's ? did she watch beside 
her child ? 

All his stranger words with meaning her woman's heart sup- 
plied ; 

With her kiss upon his forehead, " Mother," murmured he, 
and died. 

"A bitter curse upon them, poor boy, who led thee forth, 
From some gentle, sad-eyed mother, weeping lonely, in the 

North!" 
Spake the mournful Mexic woman, as she laid him with her 

dead, 
And turned to soothe the living, and bind the wounds which 

bled. 

Look forth once more, Ximena ! " Like a cloud before the 

wind 
Rolls the battle down the mountains, leaving blood and 

death behind ; 
Ah ! they plead in vain for mercy ; in the dust the wounded 

strive ; 
Hide your faces, holy angels ! O, thou Christ of God, 

forgive ! " 



THE WIDOW OF GLENCOE. 261 

Sink, O Night, among thy mountains ! let the cool, gray 

shadows fall ; 
Dying brothers, fighting demons, drop thy curtain over all ! 
Through the thickening winter twilight, wide apart the 

battle rolled, 
In its sheath the saber rested, and the cannon's lips grew 

cold. 

But the noble Mexic women still their holy task pursued, 
Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn and faint 

and lacking food ; 
Over weak and suffering brothers, with a tender care they 

hung, 
And the dying foeman blessed them in a strange and 

Northern tongue. 

Not wholly lost, O Father ! is this evil world of ours ; 
Upward, through its blood and ashes, spring afresh the 

Eden flowers ; 
From its smoking hell of battle, Love and Pity send their 

prayer, 
And still thy white-winged angels hover dimly in our air. 



THE WIDOW OF GLENCOE. 
William Edmondstoune Aytoun. 

Do not lift him from the bracken, leave him Iving where he 

fell- 
Better bier ye cannot fashion : none beseems him half so 

well 
As the bare and broken heather, and the hard and trampled 

sod, 
Whence his angry soul ascended to the judgment-seat of 

God ! 
Winding-sheet we cannot give him — seek no mantle for the 

dead, 
Save the cold and spotless covering showered from heaven 

upon his head. 
Leave his broadsword as we found it, rent and broken with 

the blow 



262 THE WIDOW OF GLENCOE. 

That, before he died, avenged him on the foremost of the 

foe. 
Leave the blood upon his bosom — wash not off that sacred 

stain ; 
Let it stiffen on the tartan, let his wounds unclosed 

remain, 
Till the day when he shall show them at the throne of God 

on high, 
When the murderer and the murdered meet before then- 
Judge's eye. 
Nay — ye should not weep, my children ! leave it to the 

faint and weak ; 
Sobs are but a woman's weapons — tears befit a maiden's 

cheek. 
Weep not, children of Macdonald ! weep not thou, his 

orphan heir ; 
Not in shame, but stainless honor, lies thy slaughtered 

father there. 
Weep not — but when years are over, and thine arm is strong 

and sure, 
And thy foot is swift and steady on the mountains and the 

muir, 
Let thy heart be hard as iron, and thy wrath as fierce as 

fire, 
Till the hour when vengeance cometh for the race that slew 

thy sire ! 
Till in deep and dark Glenlyon rise a louder shriek of 

woe, 
Than at midnight, from their eyrie, scared the eagles of 

Glencoe ; 
Louder than the screams that mingled with the howling of 

the blast, 
When the murderers' steel was clashing, and the fires were 

rising fast ; 
When thy noble father bounded to the rescue of his men, 
And the slogan of our kindred pealed throughout the 

startled glen ; 
When the herd of frantic women stumbled through the mid- 
night snow, 
With their fathers' houses blazing, and their dearest dead 

below ! 
Oh, the horror of the tempest, as the flashing drift was 

blown, 



THE WIDOW OF GLENCOE. 263 

Crimsoned with the conflagration, and the roofs went thun- 
dering down ! 

Oh, the prayers, the prayers and curses, that together winged 
their flight 

From the maddened hearts of many, through that long and 
woeful night ! — 

Till the fires began to dwindle, and the shots grew faint and 
few, 

And we heard the foeman's challenge only in a far halloo : 

Till the silence once more settled o'er the gorges of the 
glen, 

Broken only by the Cona plunging through its naked den. 

Slowly from the mountain summit was the drifting veil with- 
drawn, 

And the ghastly valley glimmered in the gray December 
dawn. 

Better had the morning never dawned upon our dark de- 
spair ! 

Black amidst the common whiteness rose the spectral ruins 
there : 

But the sight of these was nothing more than wrings the 
wild dove's breast, 

When she searches for her offspring round the relics of her 
nest. 

For in many a spot the tartan peered above the wintry 
heap, 

Marking where a dead Macdonald lay within his frozen 
sleep. 

Tremblingly we scooped the covering from each kindred 
victim's head, 

And the living lips were burning on the cold ones of the 
dead. 

And I left them with their dearest — the dearest charge had 
every one — 

Left the maiden with her lover, left the mother with her son. 

I alone of all was mateless — far more wretched I than they. 

For the snow would not discover where my lord and hus- 
band lay. 

But I wandered up the valley, till I found him lying low, 

With the gash upon his bosom, and the frown upon his 
brow — 

Till I found him lying murdered where he wooed me long 
ago ! 



264 THE WIDOW OF GLENCOE. 

Woman's weakness shall not shame me — why should I have 

tears to shed ? 
Could I rain them down like water, O my hero ! on thy 

head — 
Could the cry of lamentation wake thee from thy silent 

sleep, 
Could it set thy heart a-throbbing, it were mine to wail and 

weep ! 
But I will not waste my sorrow, lest the Campbell women 

say 
That the daughters of Clanranald are as weak and frail as 

they. 
I had wept thee, hadst thou fallen, like our fathers, on thy 

shield, 
When a host of English foemen camped upon a Scottish 

field— 
I had mourned thee, hadst thou perished with the foremost 

of his name, 
When the valiant and the noble died around the dauntless 

Graeme ! 
But I will not wrong thee, husband, with my unavailing 

cries, 
Whilst thy cold and mangled body, stricken by the traitor, 

lies ; 
Whilst he counts the gold and glory that this hideous night 

has won, 
And his heart is big with triumph at the murder he has 

done. 
Other eyes than mine shall glisten, other hearts be rent in 

twain, 
Ere the heath-bells on thy hillock wither in the autumn 

rain. 
Then I'll seek thee where thou sleepest, and I'll veil my 

weary head, 
Praying for a place beside thee, dearer than my bridal-bed : 
And I'll give thee tears, my husband, if the tears remain to 

me, 
When the widows of the foeman cry the coronach for 

thee ! 



THE INDIANS. 265 

THE INDIANS. 

Charles Sprague. 

Yet while, by life's endearments crowned, 

To mark this day we gather round, 

And to our nation's founders raise 

The voice of gratitude and praise, 

Shall not one line lament that lion race, 

For us struck out from sweet creation's face ? 

Alas, alas for them ! — those fated bands, 

Whose monarch tread was on these broad, green lands. 

Our fathers called them savage, — them, whose bread, 

In the dark hour those famished fathers fed. 

We call them savage. O, be just ! 

Their outraged feelings scan ; 
A voice comes forth, — 'tis from the dust, — 

The savage was a man ! 
Think ye he loved not ? Who stood by, 

And in his toils took part ? 
Woman was there to bless his eye, — 

The savage had a heart ! 
Think ye he prayed not ? When on high 

He heard the thunders roll, 
What bade him look beyond the sky ? 

The savage had a soul ! 

I venerate the Pilgrim's cause, 

Yet for the red man dare to plead. 
We bow to Heaven's recorded laws, 

He turned to Nature for a creed. 
Beneath the pillared dome, 

We seek our God in prayer ; 
Through boundless woods he loved to roam, 

And the Great Spirit worshiped there. 
But one, one fellow-throb with us he felt; 
To one divinity with us he knelt ; 
Freedom, — the self-same freedom we adore, — 
Bade him defend his violated shore. 

He saw the cloud, ordained to grow 

And burst upon his hills in woe ; 



266 THE INDIANS. 

He saw his people withering by, 

Beneath the invader's evil eye ; 
Strange feet were trampling on his fathers' bones; 

At midnight hour he woke to gaze 

Upon his happy cabin's blaze, 
And listen to his children's dying groans. 

He saw, and, maddening at the sight, 

Gave his bold bosom to the fight ; . 

To tiger-rage his soul was driven ; 

Mercy was not, or sought, or given ; 

The pale man from his lands must fly, — 

He would be free, or he would die. 
Alas for them ! — their day is o'er, 
Their fires are out from hill and shore ; 
No more for them the wild deer bounds ; 
The plow is on their hunting grounds ; 
The pale man's ax rings through their woods ; 
The pale man's sail skims o'er their floods ; 

Their pleasant springs are dry ; 
Their children, — look ! by power oppressed, 
Beyond the mountains of the west 

Their children go — to die ! 

O, doubly lost ! Oblivion's shadows close 

Around their triumphs and their woes. 

On other realms, whose suns have set, 

Reflected radiance lingers yet ; 

There sage and bard have shed a light 

That never shall go down in night ; 

There time-crowned columns stand on high, 

To tell of them who cannot die ; 

Even we, who then were nothing, kneel 

In homage there, and join earth's general peal. 

But the doomed Indian leaves behind no trace 

To save his own, or serve another race ; 

With his frail breath his power has passed away ; 

His deeds, his thoughts, are buried with his clay ; 

Nor lofty pile, nor glowing page, 

Shall link him to a future age, 

Or give him with the past a rank ; 
His heraldry is but a broken bow, 
His history but a tale of wrong and woe, — 

His very name must be a blank. 



AMERICAN LABORERS. 267 

Cold, with the beast he slew he sleeps ; 

O'er him no filial spirit weeps ; 

No crowds throng round, no anthem notes ascend, 

To bless his coming and embalm his end ; 

Even that he lived, is for his conqueror's tongue ; 

By foes alone his death-song must be sung : 

No chronicles but theirs shall tell 

His mournful doom to future times ; 
May these upon his virtues dwell, 

And in his fate forget his crimes. 



AMERICAN LABORERS. 
C. Naylor. 

The gentleman, sir, has misconceived the spirit and ten- 
dency of Northern institutions. He is ignorant of northern 
character. He has forgotten the history of his country. 
Preach insurrection to the northern laborers ! Who are 
the northern laborers? The history of your country is their 
history. The renown of your country is their renown. 
The brightness of their doings is emblazoned on its every 
page. Blot from your annals the words and the doings of 
northern laborers, and the history of your country presents 
but a universal blank. 

Sir, who was he that disarmed the Thunderer ; wrested 
from his grasp the bolts of Jove ; calmed the troubled 
ocean ; became the central sun of the philosophical system 
of his age, shedding his brightness and effulgence on the 
whole civilized world ; whom the great and mighty of the 
earth delighted to honor ; who participated in the achieve- 
ment of your independence, prominently assisted in mold- 
ing your free institutions, and the beneficial effects of whose 
wisdom will be felt to the last moment of " recorded time " ? 
Who, sir, I ask, was he? A northern laborer, — a Yankee 
tallow-chandler's son,— a printer's runaway boy ! 

And who, let me ask the honorable gentleman, who was 
he that, in the days of our Revolution, led forth a northern 
army, — yes, an army of northern laborers,— and aided the 
chivalry of South Carolina in their defense against British 
aggression, drove the spoilers from their firesides, and re- 
deemed her fair fields from foreign invaders ? Who was he ? 



268 HYMN OF PRAISE BY ADAM AND EVE. 

A northern laborer, a Rhode Island blacksmith, — the gal- 
lant General Greene, — who left his hammer and his forge, 
and went forth conquering and to conquer in the battle for 
our independence ! And will you preach insurrection to 
men like these? 

Sir, our country is full of the achievements of northern 
laborers ! Where is Concord, and Lexington, and Princeton, 
and Trenton, and Saratoga, and Bunker Hill, but in the 
North ? And what, sir, has shed an imperishable renown on 
the never-dying names of those hallowed spots, but the 
blood and the struggles, the high daring, and patriotism, and 
sublime courage of northern laborers? The whole North 
is an everlasting monument of the freedom, virtue, intelli- 
gence, and indomitable independence of northern laborers ! 
Go, sir, go preach insurrection to men like these ! 

The fortitude of the men of the North, under intense suf- 
fering for liberty's sake, has been almost godlike ! History 
has so recorded it. Who comprised that gallant army, 
without food, without pay, shelterless, shoeless, penniless, 
and almost naked, in that dreadful winter, — the midnight of 
our Revolution, — whose wanderings could be traced by 
their blood tracks in the snow : whom no arts could seduce, 
no appeal lead astray, no sufferings disaffect ; but who, true 
to their country and its holy cause, continued to fight the 
good fight of liberty, until it finally triumphed ? Who, sir, 
were these men ? Why, northern laborers ! — yes, sir, 
northern laborers ! Who, .sir, were Roger Sherman and — 
but it is idle to enumerate. To name the northern laborers 
who have distinguished themselves, and illustrated the his- 
tory of their country, would require days of. the time of this 
House. Nor is it necessary. Posterity will do them justice. 
Their deeds have been recorded in characters of fire ! 



HYMN OF PRAISE BY ADAM AND EVE. 

John Miltoru 

These are thy glorious works, Parent of good, 
Almighty ! Thine this universal frame, 
Thus wondrous fair ! Thyself how wondrous then, 
Unspeakable ! who sittest above these heavens, 
To us invisible, or dimly seen 



HYMN OF PRAISE BY ADAM AND EVE. 269 

In these thy lowest works ; yet these declare 

Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine. 

Speak, ye who best can tell, ye sons of light, 

Angels ; for ye behold him, and with songs 

And choral symphonies, day without night, 

Circle his throne rejoicing; ye in heaven, 

On earth join all ye creatures to extol 

Him first, him last, him midst, and without end. 

Fairest of stars, last in the train of night, 

If better thou belong not to the dawn, 

Sure pledge of day, that crownest the smiling morn 

With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere, 

While day arises, that sweet hour of prime. 

Thou sun, of this great world both eye and soul, 

Acknowledge him thy greater ; sound his praise 

In thy eternal course, both when thou climbest, 

And when high noon hast gained ; and when thou fallest, 

Ye mists and exhalations, that now rise 

From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray, 

Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold, 

In honor to the world's great Author rise ; 

Whether to deck with clouds the uncolored sky, 

Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers, 

Rising or falling, still advance his praise. 

His praise, ye winds that from four quarters blow, 

Breathe soft or loud ; and wave your tops, ye pines, 

With every plant, in sign of worship wave. 

Fountains, and ye that warble, as ye flow, 

Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise. 

Join voices, all ye living souls ; ye birds, 

That singing up to heaven's gate ascend, 

Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise. 

Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk 

The earth and stately tread or lowly creep ; 

Witness if I be silent, morn or even, 

To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade, 

Made local by my song, and taught his praise. 

Hail, universal Lord, be bounteous still 

To give us only good ; and if the night 

Have gathered aught of evil or concealed, 

Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark. 



270 SONG OF THE GREEKS. 

SONG OF THE GREEKS. 

Campbell. 

Again to the battle, Achaians ! 

Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance.; 

Our land, — the first garden of Liberty's tree, — 

It hath been, and shall yet be, the land of the free ; 

For the cross of our faith is replanted, 

The pale dying crescent is daunted, 

And we march that the footprints of Mahomet's slaves 

May be washed out in blood from our forefathers' graves. 

Their spirits are hovering o'er us, 

And the sword shall to glory restore us. 

Ah ? what though no succor advances, 

Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances, 

Are stretched in our aid ? — Be the combat our own ! 

And we'll perish or conquer more proudly alone ! 

For we've sworn by our country's assaulters, 

By the virgins they've dragged from our altars, 

By our massacred patriots, our children in chains, 

By our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins, 

That, living, we shall be victorious, 

Or that, dying, our deaths shall be glorious. 

A breath of submission we breathe not : 

The sword that we've drawn we will sheathe not : 

Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid, 

And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade. 

Earth may hide, waves engulf, fire consume us ; 

But they shall not to slavery doom us. 

If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves : 

But we've smote them already with fire on the waves, 

And new triumphs on land are before us : 

To the charge ! — Heaven's banner is o'er us. 

This day — shall ye blush for its story ; 

Or brighten your lives with its glory ? 

Our women — Oh ! say, shall they shriek in despair, 

Or embrace us from conquest, with wreaths in their hair ? 

Accursed may his memory blacken, 

If a coward there be who would slacken 



A PARENTAL ODE TO MY INFANT SON. 271 

Till we've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves worth 
Being sprung from, and named for, the godlike of earth. 
Strike home ! — and the world shall revere us 
As heroes descended from heroes. 

Old Greece lightens up with emotion ! 

Her inlands, her isles of the ocean, 

Fanes rebuilt, and fair towns shall with jubilee ring, 

And the Nine shall new hallow their Helicon's spring. 

Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness, 

That were cold, and extinguished in sadness ; 

Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white waving 

arms, 
Singing joy to the brave that delivered their charms, — 
When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens 
Shall have crimsoned the beaks of our ravens ! 



A PARENTAL ODE TO MY INFANT SON. 
Hood. 

Thou happy, happy elf ! 
(But stop — first let me kiss away that tear) — 

Thou tiny image of myself ! 
(My love, he's poking peas into his ear) — 

Thou merry, laughing sprite ! 

With spirits feather light, 
Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin — 
(Good heavens ! the child is swallowing a pin !) 

Thou little tricksy Puck i 
With antic toys so funnily bestuck, 
Light as the singing bird that wings the air, 
(The door ! the door ! he'll tumble down the stair !) 

Thou darling of thy sire ! 
(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire !) 

Thou imp of mirth and joy ! 
In love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, 
Thou idol of thy parents — (stop the boy ! 

There goes my ink !) 



272 A PARENTAL ODE TO MY INFANT SON. 

Thou cherub — but of earth ! 
Fit playfellow for fays by moonlight pale, 

In harmless sport and mirth, 
(The dog will bite him if he pulls his tail !) 

Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey 
From every blossom in the world that blows 

Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny, 
(Another tumble — that's his precious nose !) 

Thy father's pride and hope ! 
(He'll break the mirror with that skipping rope !) 
With pure heart newly stamped from nature's mint, 

(Where did he learn that squint ?) 

Thou young domestic love ! 
(He'll have that jug off with another shove !) 
Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest ! 
(Are those torn clothes his best ?) 

Little epitome of man ! 
(He'll climb upon the table — that's his plan !) 
Touched with the beauteous tints of drawing life, 

(He's got a knife !) 

Thou enviable being ! 
No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky forseeing, 

Play on, play on. 

My elfin John ! 
Toss the light ball — bestride the stick, 
(I knew so many cakes would make him sick !) 
With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down, 
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk, 

With many a lamb-like frisk, 
(He's got the scissors, nipping at your gown !) 

Thou pretty opening rose ! 
(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose !) 
Balmy, and breathing music like the south 
(He really brings my heart into my mouth !) 
Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star, 
(I wish that window had an iron bar !) 
Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove — 

(I tell you what, my love, 
I cannot write, unless he's sent above !) 



THE PASSIONS. 273 

THE PASSIONS. 

William Collins. 

When Music, heavenly maid, was young, 
While yet in early Greece she sung-, 
The Passions oft, to hear her shell, 
Thronged around her magic cell, 
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, 
Possessed beyond the Muse's painting ; 
By turns they felt the glowing mind 
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined : 
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired, 
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired, 
From the supporting myrtles round, 
They snatched her instruments of sound ; 
And, as they oft had heard apart 
Sweet lessons of her forceful art, 
Each — for madness ruled the hour — 
Would prove his own expressive power. 

First, Fear his hand, its skill to try, 

Amid the chords bewildered laid : 
And back recoiled, he knew not why, 

E'en at the sound himself had made. 

Next, Anger rushed, his eyes on fire, 
In lightnings owned his secret stings ; 

In one rude clash he struck the lyre, 

And swept with hurried hand the strings. 

With woeful measures, wan Despair — 
Low, sullen sounds ! — his grief beguiled, 

A solemn, strange, and mingled air ; 
'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. 

But thou, O Hope ! with eyes so fair, 

What was thy delighted measure ? 

Still it whispered promised pleasure, 
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail ! 

Still would her touch the strain prolong ; 
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, 

She called on Echo still through all the song : 



274 THE PASSIONS. 

And where her sweetest theme she chose, 

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close ; 

And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair. 

And longer had she sung — but, with a frown, 

Revenge impatient rose : 
He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down ; 

And with a withering look, 

The war-denouncing trumpet took, 
And blew a blast so loud and dread, 
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe ; 

And, ever and anon, he beat 

The doubling drum with furious heat ; 
And though, sometimes, each dreary pause between, 

Dejected Pity, at his side, 

Her soul-subduing voice applied, 
Yet still he kept his wild, unaltered mien, 
While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his 
head. 

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught were fixed ; 

Sad proof of thy distressful state ! 
Of differing themes the veering song was mixed ; 

And, now it courted Love ; now, raving, called on Hate. 

With eyes upraised, as one inspired, 
Pale Melancholy sat retired ; 
And, from her wild, sequestered seat, 
In notes, by distance made more sweet, 

Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul ; 
And, dashing soft from rocks around, 
Bubbling runnels joined the sound ; 

Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole 

Or o'er some haunted stream with fond delay 
(Round a holy calm diffusing, 
Love of peace, and lonely musing), 

In hollow murmurs died away. 

But, O ! how altered was its sprightlier tone, 
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, 

Her bow across her shoulder flung, 
Her buskins gemmed with morning dew, 

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung! — 



EXTRACT FROM RIENZI. 275 

The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known ! 

The oak-crowned Sisters, and their chaste-eyed Queen, 

Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen, 

Peeping from forth their alleys green ; 

Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear, 

And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear. 

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial ; 

He, with viny crown advancing, 

First to the lively pipe his hand addressed ; 
But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol, 

Whose sweet, entrancing voice he loved the best. 
They would have thought, who heard the strain, 
They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids, 
Amid the festal sounding shades, 

To some unwearied minstrel dancing ; 
While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings, 
Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round ; 
(Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound), 
And he, amid his frolic play, 
As if he would the charming air repay, 
Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings. 



EXTRACT FROM RIENZI. 
Mary Russell Mitford. 

And darest talk thou to me of brothers ? Thou, 
Whose groom — wouldst have me break my own just laws, 
To save thy brother? thine ! Hast thou forgotten 
When that most beautiful and blameless boy, 
The prettiest piece of innocence that ever 
Breathed in this sinful world, lay at thy feet, 
Slain by thy pampered minion, and I knelt 
Before thee for redress, whilst thou — didst never 
Hear talk of retribution ! This is justice, 
Pure justice, not revenge ! Mark well, my lords — 
Pure, equal justice. Martin Orsini 
Had open trial, is guilty, is condemned, 
And he shall die ! Lords, 
If ye could range before me all the peers, 



276 TACT AND TALENT. 

Prelates, and potentates of Christendom — 

The holy pontiff kneeling at my knee, 

And emperors crouching at my feet, to sue 

For this great robber, still I should be blind 

As justice. But this very day, a wife, 

One infant folded in her arms, and two 

Clinging to the poor rags that scarcely hid 

Her squalid form, grasped at my bridle-rein 

To beg her husband's life — condemned to die " 

For some vile petty theft, some paltry scudi — 

And, whilst the fiery war-horse chafed and reared, 

Shaking his crest, and plunging to get free, 

There, midst the dangerous coil unmoved, she stood, 

Pleading in broken words and piercing shrieks, 

And hoarse, low, shivering sobs, the very cry 

Of nature ! And, when I at last said no, — 

For I said no to her, — she flung herself 

And those poor innocent babes between the stones 

And my hot Arab's hoofs. We saved them all — 

Thank heaven, we saved them all ! but I said no 

To that sad woman, midst her shrieks. Ye dare not 

Ask me for mercy now. 



TACT AND TALENT. 
London Alias. 

Talent is something, but tact is everything. Talent is 
serious, sober, grave, and respectable ; tact is all that, and 
more too. It is not a sixth sense, but it is the life of all 
the five. It is the open eye, the quick ear, the judging 
taste, the keen smell, and the lively touch ; it is the inter- 
preter of all riddles, the surmounter of all difficulties, the 
remover of all obstacles. It is useful in all places, and at 
all times ; it is useful in solitude, for it shows a man his 
way into the world ; it is useful in society, for it shows him 
his way through the world. . 

Talent is power, tact is skill ; talent is weight, tact is 
momentum ; talent knows what to do, tact knows how to 
do it ; talent makes a man respectable, tact will make him 
respected ; talent is wealth, tact is ready money. 

For all the practical purposes of life, tact carries it 
against talent, ten to one. Take them to the theater, and 



TACT AND TALENT. 277 

put them against each other on the stage, and talent shall 
produce you a tragedy that will scarcely live long enough 
to be condemned, while tact keeps the house in a roar, 
night after night, with its successful farces. There is no 
want of dramatic talent, there is no want of dramatic tact ; 
but they are seldom together : so we have successful pieces 
which are not respectable, and respectable pieces which are 
not successful. 

Take them to the bar, and let them shake their learned 
curls at each other in legal rivalry. Talent sees its way 
clearly, but tact is first at its journey's end. Talent has 
many a compliment from the bench, but tact touches fees 
from attorneys and clients. Talent speaks learnedly and 
logically, tact triumphantly. Talent makes the world won- 
der that it gets on no faster, tact excites astonishment that 
it gets on so fast. And the secret is, that tact has no weight 
to carry ; it makes no false steps ; it hits the right nail on 
the head ; it loses no time ; it takes all hints ; and, by keep- 
ing its eye on the weathercock, is ready to take advantage 
of every wind that blows. 

Take them into the church. Talent has always something 
worth hearing, tact is sure of abundance of hearers ; talent 
may obtain a living, tact will make one ; talent gets a good 
name, tact a great one ; talent convinces, tact converts ; 
talent is an honor to the profession, tact gains honor from 
the profession. 

Take them to court. Talent feels its weight, tact finds 
its way ; talent commands, tact is obeyed ; talent is honored 
with approbation, and tact is blessed by preferment. 

Place them in the senate. Talent has the ear of the house, 
but tact wins its heart and has its votes ; talent is fit for 
employment, but tact is fitted for it. Tact has a knack of 
slipping into place with a sweet silence and glibness of move- 
ment, as a billiard ball insinuates itself into the pocket. It 
seems to know everything, without learning anything. It 
has served an invisible and extemporary apprenticeship ; it 
wants no drilling ; it never ranks in the awkward squad ; it 
has no left hand, no deaf ear, no blind side. It puts on no 
looks of wondrous wisdom, it has no air of profundity, but 
plays with the details of place as dexterously as a well-taught 
hand flourishes over the keys of the piano-forte. It has all 
the air of commonplace, and all the force and power of 
genius. 



278 THE CHURCH-YARD. 

THE CHURCH-YARD. 

Nicolai Karamsin. 

First Voice. 

How frightful the grave ! how deserted and drear ! 
With the howls of the storm-wind — the creaks of the bier 
And the white bones all clattering together ! 

Second Voice. 

How peaceful the grave ! its quiet how deep : 
Its zephyrs breathe calmly, and soft is its sleep, 
And flowrets perfume it with ether. 

First Voice. 

There riots the blood-crested worm on the dead, 
And the yellow skull serves the foul toad for a bed, 
And snakes in its nettle weeds hiss. 

Second Voice. 

How lovely, how sweet the repose of the tomb : 
No tempests are there : but the nightingales come, 
And sing their sweet chorus of bliss. 

First Voice. 

The ravens of night flap their wings o'er the grave : 
'Tis the vulture's abode ; 'tis the wolf's dreary cave, 
Where they tear up the earth with their fangs. 

Second Voice. 

There the cony at evening disports with his love, 
Or rests on the sod ; while the turtles above, 
Repose on the bough that o'erhangs. 

First Voice. 

There darkness and dampness with poisonous breath, 
And loathsome decay fill the dwelling of death ; 
The trees are all barren and bare ! 



the forging of the anchor. 279 

Second Voice. 

O, soft are the breezes that play round the tomb, 
And sweet with the violet's wafted perfume, 
With lilies and jessamine fair. 

First Voice. 

The pilgrim who reaches this valley of tears, 
Would fain hurry by, and with trembling and fears, 
He is launched on the wreck-covered river ! 

Second Voice. 

The traveler, outworn with life's pilgrimage dreary, 
Lays down his rude staff, like one that is weary, 
And sweetly reposes forever. 



THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. 
S. Ferguson, 

Come, see the Dolphin's anchor forged ; 'tis at a white heat 

now ; 
The bellows ceased, the flames decreased ; though on the 

forge's brow 
The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound ; 
And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round, 
All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare ; 
Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass 

there. 

The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound 

heaves below, 
And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every throe; 
It rises, roars, rends all outright — O Vulcan, what a glow ! 
'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright ; the high sun shines 

not so ; 
The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery, fearful show : 
The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy, lurid 

row 
Of smiths, that stand, an ardent band, like men before the 

foe : 



280 THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. 

As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing mon- 
ster slow 
Sinks on the anvil — all about the faces fiery grow — 
" Hurrah ! " they shout, " leap out — leap out ! " bang, bang, 
the sledges go ; 

Hurrah ! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low ; 

A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow ; 

The leathern mail rebounds the hail ; the rattling cinders 
strow 

The ground around ; at every bound the sweltering foun- 
tains flow : 

And thick and loud the swinking crowd, at every stroke, 
pant " Ho ! " 

Leap out, leap out, my masters ; leap out and lay on load ! 
Let's forge a goodly anchor, a bower, thick and broad ; 
For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode, 
And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road ; 
The low reef roaring on her lee, the roll of ocean poured 
From stem to stern, sea after sea, the main-mast by the 

board ; 
The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the 

chains ; 
But courage still, brave mariners, the bower yet remains, 
And not an inch to flinch he deigns save when ye pitch sky- 
high, 
Then moves his head, as though he said, " Fear nothing — 

here am I ! " 
Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep 

time ; 
Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's 

chime ; 
But while ye swing your sledges, sing ; and let the burden 

be, 
The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we ; 
Strike in, strike in ; the sparks begin to dull their rustling 

red ; 
Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be 

sped ; 
Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array, 
For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of 

clay; 



THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. 281 

Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen 

here, 
For the yeo-heave-o, and the heave away, and the sighing 

seaman's cheer, 
When weighing slow, at eve they go, far, far from love and 

home, 
And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam. 

In livid and obdurate gloom, he darkens down at last, 
A shapely one he is and strong, as e'er from cat was cast. 
A trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me, 
What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep- 
green sea ! 
O deep-sea diver, who might then behold such sights as 

thou ? 
The hoary monster's palaces ! methinks what joy 'twere 

now 
To go plump, plunging down amid the assembly of the 

whales, 
And feel the churned sea round me boil beneath their 

scourging tails ! 
Then deep in tangle woods to fight the fierce sea-unicorn, 
And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all his ivory 

horn, 
To leave the subtle sworder-fish, of bony blade forlorn, 
And for the ghastly grinning shark, to laugh his jaws to 

scorn; 
To leap down on the kraken's back, where 'mid Norwegian 

isles 
He lies a lubber anchorage, for sudden shallowed miles ; 
Till snorting, like an under-sea volcano, off he rolls, 
Meanwhile to swing, a buffeting the far astonished shoals 
Of his back-browsing ocean calves ; or haply in a cove, 
Shell-strown, and consecrate of old to some Undine's love, 
To find the long-haired mermaidens ; or, hard by icy lands, 
To wrestle with the sea serpent, upon cerulean sands ! 
O broad-armed fisher of the deep, whose sports can equal 

thine ? 
The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons, that tugs thy cable 

line ; 
And night by night by 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by day, 
Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game to 

play ; 



282 ALCESTIS AND PHERE.S. 

But, shamer of our little sports, forgive the name I gave ; 
A fisher's joy is to destroy — thine office is to save. 

O lodger in the sea-king's halls, couldst thou but under- 
stand 

Whose be the white bones by thy side, or who that dripping 
bend, 

Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round about thee 
bend, 

With sounds like breakers in a dream, blessing their ancient 
friend ; 

O, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps 
around thee, 

Thine iron side would swell with pride, thou'dst leap with- 
in the sea ! 

Give honor to their memories, who left the pleasant strand 
To shed their blood so freely for the love of Fatherland — 
Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy church yard 

grave 
So freely for a restless bed amid the tossing wave — 
O, thou our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung, 
Honor him for their memory, whose bones he goes among ! 



ALCESTIS AND PHERES. 
Translated By Mrs. Hemans. 

Alcestis. Weep thou no more. O monarch, dry thy 
tears, 
For know, he shall not die ; not now shall Fate 
Bereave thee of thy son. 

Pheres. What mean thy words ? 

Hath then Apollo — is there then a hope ? 

Alcestis. Yes, hope for thee, hope, by thy voice pro- 
nounced 
From the prophetic cave. Nor would I yield 
To other lips the tidings, meet alone 
For thee to hear from mine. 

Pheres. But say, oh ! say, 

Shall, then, my son be spared ? 



ALCESTIS AND PHERES. 283 

Alcestis. He shall, to thee. 

Thus hath Apollo said, — Alcestis thus 
Confirms the oracle ; be thou secure. 

Pheres. O sounds of joy ! He lives ! 

Alcestis. But not for this ; 

Think not that e'en for this the stranger, joy, 
Shall yet revisit these devoted walls. 

Pheres. Can there be grief when from his bed of death, 
Acimetus rises ? What deep mystery lurks 
Within thy words? What mean'st thou ? Gracious heaven ! 
Thou, whose deep love is all his own, who nearest 
The tidings of his safety, and dost bear 
Transport and life in that glad oracle 
To his despairing sire ; thy cheek is tinged 
With death, and on thy pure, ingenuous brow 
To the brief lightning of a sudden joy 
Shades dark as night succeed, and thou art wrapt 
In troubled silence. Speak ! oh ! speak ! 

Alcestis. The gods 

Themselves have limitations to their power, 
Impassable, eternal ; and their will 
Resists not the tremendous laws of fate : 
Nor small the boon they grant thee in the life 
Of thy restored Admetus. 

Pheres. In thy looks 

There is expression more than in thy words, 
Which thrills my shuddering heart. Declare what terms 
Can render fatal to thyself and us 
The rescued life of him thy soul adores ? 

Alcestis. O, father ! could my silence aught avail 
To keep that fearful secret from thine ear, 
Still should it rest unheard till all fulfilled 
Were the dread sacrifice. But vain the wish ; 
And since too soon, too well, it must be known, 
Hear it from me. 

Pheres. Through all my curdling veins 

Runs a cold, death-like horror ; and I feel 
I am not all a father. In my heart 
Strive many deep affections. Thee I love, 
O fair and high-souled consort of my son ! 
More than a daughter ; and thine infant race, 
The cherished hope and glory of my age ; 
And, unimpaired by time, within my breast 



284 ALCESTIS AND PHERES. 

High, holy, and unalterable love 

For her, the partner of my cares and joys, 

Dwells pure and perfect yet. Bethink thee, then, 

In what suspense, what agony of fear, 

I wait thy words ; for well, too well, I see 

Thy lips are fraught with fatal auguries 

To some one of my race. 

Alcestis. Death hath his rights, 

Of which not e'en the great Supernal Powers 
May hope to rob him. By his ruthless hand, 
Already seized, the noble victim lay, 
The heir of empire, in his glowing prime 
And noon-day struck ; Admetus, the revered, 
The blessed, the loved, by all who owned his sway, 
By his illustrious parents, by the realms 
Surrounding his, — and oh! what need to add, 
How much by his Alcestis ! Such was he, 
Already in the unsparing grasp of death, 
Withering, a certain prey. Apollo thence 
Hath snatched him, and another in his stead, 
Although not an equal, — (who can equal him?) — 
Must fall a voluntary sacrifice 
Another of his lineage, or to him 
By closest bonds united, must descend 
To the dark realm of Orcus in his place, 
Who thus alone is saved. 

Pheres. What do I hear? 

Woe to us, woe ! — what victim ? — who shall be 
Accepted in his stead ? 

Alcestis. The dread exchange 

E'en now, O father ! hath been made ; the prey 
Is ready, nor is wholly worthless him 
For whom 'tis freely offered. Nor wilt thou, 
O mighty goddess of the infernal shades ! 
Whose image sanctifies this threshold floor, 
Disdain the victim. 

Pheres. All prepared the prey ! 

And to our blood allied ! O heaven ! — and yet 
Thou bad'st me weep no more ! 

Alcestis. Yes, thus I said, 

And thus again I say, — thou shalt not weep 
Thy son's, nor I deplore my husband's doom. 
Let him be saved, and other sounds of woe, 



ALCESTIS AND PHERES. 285 

Less deep, less mournful far, shall here be heard, 

Than those his death had caused. With some few tears, 

But brief, and mingled with a gleam of joy, 

E'en while the involuntary tribute lasts, 

The victim shall be honored, who resigned 

Life for Admetus. Wouldst thou know the prey, — 

The vowed, the willing, the devoted one. 

Offered and hallowed to the infernal gods ? 

Father ! 'tis I. 

Pheres. What hast thou done ? O heaven ! 

What hast thou done ? And think'st thou he is saved 
By such a compact ? Think'st thou he can live 
Bereft of thee ? Of thee, his light of life, 
His very soul ! — Of thee, beloved far more, 
Than his loved parents, — than his children more, 
More than himself ! — Oh ! no, it shall not be ! 
Thou perish, O Alcestis ! in the flower 
Of thy young beauty ; perish, and destroy 
Not him, not him alone, but us, but all, 
Who as a child adore thee ! Desolate 
Would be the throne, the kingdom, reft of thee. 
And think'st thou not of those, whose tender years 
Demand thy care? — thy children ! think of them! 
O thou, the source of each domestic joy, — 
Thou in whose life alone Admetus lives, — 
His glory, his delight, — thou shalt not die, 
While I can die for thee ! — Me, me alone, 
The oracle demands, — a withered stem, 
Whose task, whose duty is for him to die. 
My race is run ; the fullness of my years, 
The faded hopes of age, and all the love 
Which hath its dwelling in a father's heart, 
x\nd the fond pity, half with wonder blent, 
Inspired by thee, whose youth with heavenly gifts 
So richly is endowed, — all, all unite 
To grave in adamant the just decree, 
That 1 must die. But thou — I bid thee live ! 
Pheres commands thee, O Alcestis ! live ! 
Ne'er, ne'er shall woman's youthful love surpass 
An aged sire's devotedness. 

Alcestis. I know 

Thy lofty soul, thy fond paternal love ; 
Pheres, I know them well, and not in vain 



286 GINEVRA. 

Strove to anticipate their high resolves. 
But if in silence I have heard thy words, 
Now calmly list to mine, and thou shalt own 
They may not be withstood. 

Pheres. What canst thou say 

Which I should hear ? I go, resolved to save 
Htm who, with thee, would perish : to the shrine 
E'en now I fly. 

Alcestis. Stay, stay thee ! 'tis too late. 

Already hath consenting Proserpine, 
From the remote abysses of her realms, 
Heard and accepted the terrific vow ' 
Which binds me, with indissoluble ties, 
To death. And I am firm, and well I know 
None can deprive me of the awful right 
That vow hath won. 
Yes ! thou mayst weep my fate, 
Mourn for me, father ! but thou canst not blame 
My lofty purpose. Oh ! the more endeared 
My life by every tie, the more I feel 
Death's bitterness, the more my sacrifice 
Is worthy of Admetus. I descend 
To the dim, shadowy regions of the dead, 
A guest more honored. In thy presence here 
Again I utter the tremendous vow, 
Now more than half fulfilled. I feel, I know 
Its dread effects. Through all my burning veins 
The insatiate fever revels. Doubt is o'er. 
The Monarch of the Dead hath heard ; he calls, 
He summons me away, and thou art saved, 
O my Admetus ! 



GINEVRA. 
Samuel Rogers. 



If ever you should come to Modena 
(Where among other relics you may see 
Tassoni's bucket — but 'tis not the true one,) 
Stop at a palace near the Reggio-gate, 
Dwelt in of old by one of the Donati. 
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace, 



GINEVRA. 287 

And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses, 
Will long detain you — but, before you go, 
Enter the house, — forget it not, I pray you, 
And look awhile upon a picture there. 

'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth, 
The last of that illustrious family ; 
Done by Zampieri — but by whom I care not 
He, who observes it, ere he passes on, 
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again, 
That he may call it up when far away. 

She sits, inclining forward as to speak, 
Her lips half open, and her ringer up, 
As though she said, " Beware ! " her vest of gold 
Broidered with flowers and clasped from head to foot, 
An emerald stone in every golden clasp ; 
And on her brow, fairer than alabaster, 
A coronet of pearls. 

But then her face, 
So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth. 
The overflowings of an innocent heart — 
It haunts me still, though many a year has fled, 
Like some wild melody ! 

Alone it hangs 
O/er a moldering heirloom, its companion, 
An oaken chest, half-eaten by the worm, 
But richly carved by Antony of Trent 
With Scripture stories from the life of Christ, 
A chest that came from Venice, and had held 
The ducal robes of some old ancestors — 
That by the way — it may be true or false — 
But don't forget the picture ; and you will not, 
When you have heard the tale they told me there. 

She was an only child— her name Ginevra, 
The joy, the pride, of an indulgent father; 
And in her fifteenth year became a bride, 
Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, 
Her playmate from her birth, and her first love. 



288 GINEVRA. 

Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, 
She was all gentleness, all gayety, 
Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue. 
But now the day was come — the day, the hour ; 
Now, frowning, smiling for the hundredth time, 
The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum 
And, in the luster of her youth, she gave 
Her hand, with her heart in it to Francesco. 



Great was the joy ; but at the nuptial feast, 
When all sate down, the bride herself was wanting, 
Nor was she to be found ! Her father cried, 

" 'Tis but to make a trial of our love ! " 
And filled his glass to all ; but his hand shook, 
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. 
'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco, 
Laughing and looking back, and flying still, 
Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger. 
But now, alas ! she was not to be found ; 
Nor from that hour could anything be guessed 
But that she was not ! 

Weary of his life, 
Francesco flew to Venice, and, embarking, 
Flung it away in battle with the Turk. 
Donati lived — and long might you have seen 
An old man wandering as in quest of something, 
Something he could not find — he knew not what. 
When he was gone, the house remained awhile 
Silent and tenantless — then went to strangers. 

Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten, 
When on an idle day, a day of search 
'Mid the old lumber in the gallery, 
That moldering chest was noticed ; and 'twas said 
By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, 
" Why not remove it from its lurking place?" 
'Twas done as soon as said ; but on the way 
It burst — it fell — and lo ! a skeleton, 
With here and there a pearl, an emerald-stone, 
A golden clasp clasping a shred of gold. 
All else had' perished — save a wedding-ring, 



HOME. 289 

And a small seal, ber mother's legacy, 
Engraven with a name, — the name of both, — 
"Ginevra." 

— There then had she found a grave ! 
Within that chest had she concealed herself, 
Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy ; 
When a spring lock, that lay in ambush there, 
Fastened her down forever ! 



HOME. 

James Montgomery. 

There is a land, of every land the pride, 

Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside : 

Where brighter suns dispense serener light, 

And milder moons imparadise the night ; 

A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth, 

Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth ; 

The wandering mariner, whose eye explores 

The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores, 

Views not a realm so bountiful and fair, 

Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air : 

In every clime the magnet of his soul, 

Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole ; 

For in this land of Heaven's peculiar grace, 

The heritage of nature's noblest race, 

There is a spot of earth supremely blest, 

A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest, 

Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside 

His sword and scepter, pageantry and pride, 

W T hile in his softened looks benignly blend 

The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend ; 

Here woman reigns ; the mother, daughter, wife, 

Strews with fresh flowers the narrow way of life ; 

In the clear heaven of her delightful eye, 

An angel-guard of loves and graces lie ; 

Around her knees domestic duties meet, 

And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet, 

"Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found ? 



290 RICHELIEU S VINDICATION. 

Art thou a man ? — a patriot ? — look around ! 
O, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam, 
That land thy country, and that spot thy home ! 
— Man, through all ages of revolving time, 
Unchanging man, in every varying clime, 
Deems his own land of every land the pride, 
Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside ; 
His home the spot of earth supremely blest, 
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest. 



RICHELIEU'S VINDICATION. 
Edward George Earle Bulwer. 

Richelieu. Room, my Lords, room ! The minister of 
France 
Can need no intercession with the King. 

[They fall hack. 

Louis. What means this false report of death, Lord 
Cardinal ? 

Richelieu. Are you then angered, sire, that I live still ? 

Louis. No ; but such artifice — 

Richelieu. Not mine : — look elsewhere ! 
Louis — my castle swarmed with the assassins. 

Bar ad as \_advancing\ We have punished them already. 

Huguet is now 
In the Bastile. Oh ! my Lord, we were prompt 
To avenge you — we were — 

Richelieu. We ? Ha ! ha ! you hear, 
My liege ! What page, man, in the last court grammar 
Made you a plural ? Count, you have seized the hireling: 
Sire, shall I name the master? 

Louis. Tush ! my Lord, 
The old contrivance : — ever does your wit 
Invent assassins, — that ambition may 
Slay rivals — 

Richelieu. Rivals, sire ! in what ? 
Service to France ? / have none ! Lives the man 
Whom Europe, paled before your glory, deems 
Rival to Armand Richelieu ? 

Louis. What ! so haughty ! 

Remember he who made can unmake. 



Richelieu's vindication. 291 

Richelieu. Never ! 

Never ! Your anger can recall your trust, 
Annul my office, spoil me of my lands, 
Ritie my coffers, — but my name — my deeds, 
Are royal in a land beyond your scepter ! 
Pass sentence on me, if you will ; from Kings, 
Lo, I appeal to Time ! Be just, my liege— 
I found your kingdom rent with heresies 
And bristling with rebellion ; lawless nobles 
And breadless serfs ; England fomenting discord : 
Austria — her clutch on your dominion ; Spain 
Forging the prodigal gold of either Ind 
To armed thunder-bolts. The Arts lay dead, 
Trade rotted in your marts, your Armies mutinous, 
Your Treasury bankrupt. Would you now revoke 
Your trust, so be it ! and I leave you, sole, 
Supremest monarch of the mightiest realm. 
From Ganges to the Icebergs : Look without ; 
No foe not humbled ! Look within ; the Arts 
Quit for your schools their old Hesperides — 
The golden Italy ! while through the veins 
Or your vast empire flows in strengthening tides, 
Trade, the calm health of nations ! 

Sire, I know 
Your smoother courtiers please you best — nor measure 
Myself with them, yet sometimes I would doubt 
If statesmen, rocked and dandled into power, 
Could leave such legacies to kings ! 

[Louis appears irresolute. 

Baradas [passing him, whispers']. But Julie, 
Shall I not summon her to court. 

Louis [motions to Baradas, and turns haughtily to the Car- 
dinal]. Enough ! 
Your Eminence must excuse a longer audience. 
To your own palace : For our conference this 
Nor place —nor season. 

Richelieu. Good my liege ! for Justice 
All place a temple, and all season, summer ! 
Do you deny me justice ? Saints of heaven, 
He turns from me ! Do you deny me justice ? 
For fifteen years, while in these hands dwelt empire, 
The humblest craftsman — the obscurest vassal — 
The very leper shrinking from the sun, 



292 THE RISING OF THE VENDEE. 

Though loathed by Charity, might ask for justice ! 

Not with the fawning tone and crawling mien 

Of some I see around you — Counts and Princes — 

Kneeling for favors ; but, erect and loud, 

As men who ask man's rights ! my liege, my Lord, 

Do you refuse me justice — audience even — 

In the pale presence of the baffled Murther? 

Louis. Lord Cardinal — one by one you have severed 
from me 
The bonds of human love. All near and dear 
Marked out for vengeance — exile, or the scaffold. 
You find me now amidst my trustiest friends, 
My closest kindred ; you would tear them from me ; 
They would murder you, forsooth, since me they love. 
Enough of plots and treasons for one reign ! 
Home ! Home ! and sleep away these phantoms ! 

Richelieu. Sire ! 

I patience, heaven ! sweet heaven ! Sire, from the foot 

Of that Great Throne, these hands have raised aloft 

On an Olympus, looking down on mortals 

And worshiped by their awe — before the foot 

Of that high throne — spurn you the gray-haired man, 

Who gave you empire — and now sues for safety ! 

Louis. No : when we see your Eminence in truth 
At the foot of the throne — we'll listen to you. 



THE RISING OF THE VENDEE. 

George Croly. 

It was a Sabbath morning, and sweet the summer air, 
And brightly shone the summer sun upon the day of prayer, 
And silver sweet the village bells o'er mount and valley 

tolled, 
And in the church of St. Florent were gathered young and 

old— 
When rushing down the woodland hill, in fiery haste was 

seen, 
With panting steed and bloody spur, a noble Angevine ; 
And bounding on the sacred floor, he gave his fearful cry : 
- Up ! up for France ! the time is come for France to live 

or die ! 



THE RISING OF THE VENDEE. 293 

" Your queen is in the dungeon ; your king is in his gore ; 
O'er Paris waves the flag of death, the fiery Tricolor ; 
Your nobles in their ancient halls are hunted down and slain ; 
In convent cells and holy shrines the blood is poured like 

rain ; 
The peasant's vine is rooted up, his cottage given to flame ; 
His son is to the scaffold sent, his daughter sent to shame. 
With torch in hand and hate in heart, the rebel host is nigh. 
Up ! up for France ! the time is come for France to live 

or die ! " 

That live-long night the horn was heard from Orleans to 

Anjou, 
And poured from all their quiet fields our shepherds bold 

and true. 
Along the pleasant banks of Loire shot up the beacon-fires, 
And many a torch was blazing bright on Lucon's stately 

spires ; 
The midnight cloud was flushed with flame, that hung o'er 

Parthenay ; 
The blaze that shone o'er proud Brissac was like the break- 
ing day, 
Till east, and west, and north, and south, the loyal beacons 

shone, 
Like shooting stars from haughty Nantes to sea-begirt 

Olonne. 

And through the night, on horse and foot, the sleepless 

summons flew, 
And morning saw the Lily-flag wide-waving o'er Poitou. 
And many an ancient musketoon was taken from the wall, 
And many a jovial hunter's steed was harnessed in the 

stall, 
And many a noble's armory gave up the sword and spear, 
And many a bride, and many a babe, was left with kiss and 

tear, 
And many a homely peasant bade farewell to his old dame, 
As in the days when France's king unfurled the Oriflamme. 

There, leading his bold marksmen, rode the eagle-eyed 

Lescure, 
And dark Stofflet, who flies to fight as an eagle to his lure ; 



294 THE RISING OF THE VENDEE. 

And fearless as the lion roused, but gentle as the lamb, 
Came marching at his people's head the great and good 

Bonchamp ; 
Charette, where honor was the prize, the hero sure to 

win ; 
And there, with Henri Quatre's plume, young la Rochejac- 

quelein ; 
And there, in peasant garb and speech, — the terror of the 

foe, — 
A noble, made by Heaven's own hand, the great Cathe- 

lineau. 

We marched by tens of thousands, we marched by day and 

night, 
The Lily-standard in our front, like Israel's holy light. 
Around us rushed the rebels, as the wolf upon the 

sheep, — 
We burst upon their columns as a lion roused from 

sleep ; 
We tore their bayonets from their hands, we slew them at 

their guns ; 
Their boasted horsemen fled like chaff before our forest 

sons. 
That night we heaped their baggage high their lines of 

dead between, 
And in the center blazed to heaven their blood-dyed 

guillotine ! 

In vain they hid their heads in walls ; we rushed on stout 

Thouar ; 
What cared we for shot or shell, for battlement or bar? 
We burst its gates ; then like a wind we rushed on Fon- 

tenay ; 
We saw its flag with morning light — 'twas ours by setting 

day; 
We crushed like ripened grapes Montreuil, we bore down 

old Vihiers ; 
We charged them with our naked breasts, and took them 

with a cheer. 
We'll hunt the robbers through the land, from Seine to 

sparkling Rhone ; 
Now, " Here's a health to all we love, our king shall have 

his own." 



SECOND INAUGURAL ADDRESS. 295 

ADDRESS AT GETTYSBURG. 
Abraham Lincoln. 

Fourscore and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth 
upon this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and 
dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. 
Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether 
that nation — or any nation, so conceived and so dedicated — 
can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that 
war. We are met to dedicate a portion of it as the final 
resting-place of those who have given their lives that that 
nation might live. 

It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. 
But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate, we cannot con- 
secrate, we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, 
living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far 
above our power to add or to detract. The world will very 
little note, nor long remember, what we say here ; but it can 
never forget what they did here. 

It is for us, the living, rather, to be dedicated, here, to the 
unfinished work that they have thus far so nobly carried on. 
It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task re- 
maining before us ; that from these honored dead we take 
increased devotion to that cause for which they here gave 
the last full measure of devotion ; that we here highly resolve 
that these dead shall not have died in vain ; that the nation 
shall, under God, have a new birth of freedom, and that 
government of the people, by the eople, for the people, 
shall not perish from the earth. 



SECOND INAUGURAL ADDRESS. 

Abraham Lincoln. 

Fellow-Countrymen : At this second appearing to take 
the oath of the Presidential office, there is less occasion for 
an extended address than there was at the first. Then a 
statement somewhat in detail of a course to be pursued 
seemed very fitting and proper. Now, at the expiration of 
four years, during which public declarations have constant- 
ly been called forth on every point and phase of the great 



296 SECOND INAUGURAL ADDRESS. 

contest which still absorbs the attention and engrosses the 
energies of the nation, little that is new could be presented. 

The progress of our arms, upon which all else chiefly de- 
pends, is as well known to the public as to myself, and it 
is, I trust, reasonably satisfactory and encouraging to all. 
With high hope for the future, no prediction in regard to it 
is ventured. On the occasion corresponding to this four 
years ago, all thoughts were anxiously directed to an im- 
pending civil war. All dreaded it, all sought to avoid 
it. While the inaugural address was being delivered from 
this place, devoted altogether to saving the Union without 
war, insurgent agents were in the city seeking to destroy it 
without war, seeking to dissolve the Union and divide the 
effects by negotiation. 

Both parties deprecated war ; but one of them would 
make war rather than let the nation survive, and the other 
would accept war rather than let it perish ; and the war 
came. 

One-eighth of the whole population were colored slaves, 
not distributed generally over the Union, but located in the 
southern part of it. These slaves constituted a peculiar and 
powerful interest. All knew that this interest was somehow 
the cause of the war. To strengthen, perpetuate, and ex- 
tend this interest was the object for which the insurgents 
would rend the Union by war, while government claimed no 
right to do more than to restrict the territorial- enlargement 
of it. Neither party expected the magnitude or the dur- 
ation which it has already attained. Neither anticipated 
that the cause of the conflict might cease even before the 
conflict itself should cease. Each looked for an easier 
triumph, and a result less fundamental and astounding. 
Both read the same Bible, and pray to the same God, and 
each invokes His aid against the other. It may seem strange 
that any man should dare to ask a just God's assistance in 
wringing his bread from the sweat of other men's faces. 

But let us judge not, that we be not judged. The prayer 
of both should not be answered. That of neither has been 
answered fully. The Almighty has his own purposes. 
" Woe unto the world because of offenses, for it must needs 
be that offenses come ; but woe to that man by whom the 
offense cometh." If we shall suppose that American slavery 
is one of these offenses, which, in the providence of God, 
must needs come, but which, having continued through his 



WASHINGTON AND LINCOLN COMPARED. 297 

appointed time, he now wills to remove, and that he gives 
to both North and South this terrible war as the woe due to 
those by whom the offense came, shall we discern therein any 
departure from those divine attributes which the believers 
in a living God always ascribe to him ? 

Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray, that this 
mighty scourge, of war may speedily pass away. Yet, if 
God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the 
bondsman's two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil 
shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the 
lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was 
said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said that 
the judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether. 

With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firm- 
ness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us 
strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation's 
wound, to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and 
for his widow and his orphans, to do all which may achieve 
and cherish a just and a lasting peace among ourselves and 
with all nations. 



WASHINGTON AND LINCOLN COMPARED. 
Charles Sumner. 

In the universe of God there are no accidents. From 
the fall of a sparrow to the fall of an empire, or the sweep 
of a planet, all is according to divine Providence, whose 
laws are everlasting. It was no accident which gave to his 
country the patriot whom we now honor. It was no 
accident which snatched this patriot, so suddenly and so 
cruelly, from his sublime duties. The Lord giveth, and the 
Lord taketh away ; blessed be the name of the Lord. 
Perhaps never in history has this providence been more 
conspicuous than in that recent procession of events where 
the final triumph was wrapped in the gloom of tragedy. It 
will be our duty to catch the moral of this stupendous 
drama. 

For the second time in our annals the country has been 
summoned by the President to unite', on an appointed day, 
in commemorating the life and character of the dead. The 
first was on the death of George Washington, when, as now, 



298 WASHINGTON AND LINCOLN COMPARED. 

a day was set apart for simultaneous eulogy throughout the 
land ; and cities, towns, and villages all vied in tribute. 
More than half a century has passed since this early ob- 
servance in memory of the Father of his Country, and now 
it is repeated in memory of Abraham Lincoln. 

Thus are Washington and Lincoln associated in the 
grandeur of their obsequies. But this association is not 
accidental. It is from the nature of the case, and because 
the part which Lincoln was called to perform resembled in 
character the part which was performed by Washington. 
The work left undone by Washington was continued by 
Lincoln. Kindred in service, kindred in patriotism, each 
was naturally surrounded at death by kindred homage. 
One sleeps in the East, and the other sleeps in the West ; 
and thus, in death, as in life, one is the complement of the 
other. 

Each was at the head of the republic during a period of 
surpassing trial ; and each thought only of the public good, 
simply, purely, constantly, so that single-hearted devotion to 
country will always find a synonym in their names. Each 
was the national chief during a time of successful war. 
Each was the representative of his country at a great epoch 
of history. 

Unlike in origin, conversation, and character, they were 
unlike, also, in the ideas which they served, except so far as 
each was the servant of his country. The war conducted 
by Washington was unlike the war conducted by Lincoln — 
as the peace which crowned the arms of the one was unlike 
the peace which began to smile upon the other. The two 
wars did not differ in the scale of operations, and in the' 
tramp of mustered hosts, more than in the ideas involved. 
The first was for national independence ; the second was to 
make the republic one and indivisible, on the indestructible 
foundations of liberty and equality, in the relation of 
cause and effect the first was the natural precursor and 
herald of the second. By the sword of Washington inde- 
pendence was secured ; but the unity of the republic and 
the principles of the Declaration were left exposed to ques- 
tion. From that day to this, through various chances, they 
have been questioned, and openly assailed — until at last 
the republic was constrained to take up arms in their 
defense. 

Such are these two great wars in which these two chiefs 



WASHINGTON AND LINCOLN COMPARED. 299 

bore such part. Washington fought for national indepen- 
dence, and triumphed, — making his country an example to 
mankind. Lincoln drew a reluctant sword to save those 
great ideas, essential to the life and character of the 
republic, which unhappily the sword of Washington had 
failed to put beyond the reach of assault. 

It was by no accident that these two great men became 
the representatives of their country at these two different 
epochs, so alike in peril, and yet so unlike in the principles 
involved. Washington was the natural representative of 
national independence. He might also have represented 
national unity had this principle been challenged to bloody 
battle during his life ; for nothing was nearer his heart 
than the' consolidation of our Union, which, in his letter to 
Congress transmitting the Constitution, he declared to be 
" the greatest interest of every true American." But 
another person was needed, of different birth and simpler 
life, to represent the ideas which in our day have been as- 
sailed. 

Washington, always strictly just, according to prevailing 
principles, and ordering at his death the emancipation of 
his slaves, was a general and a statesman rather than a 
philanthropist. His origin — his early life — his oppor- 
tunities — his condition — his character, were all in contrast 
with the origin, the early life, the opportunities, the condi- 
tion, and the character of him whom we commemorate to- 
day. 

Mourn not the dead, but rejoice in his life and example. 
Rejoice as you point to this child of the people, who was 
lifted so high that republican institutions became manifest 
in him ! Rejoice that through him Emancipation was pro- 
claimed ! Above all, see to it that his constant vows are 
fulfilled, and that the promises of the Fathers are main- 
tained, so that no person in the upright form of man can 
be shut out from their protection. Then will the unity of 
the republic be fixed on a foundation that cannot fail, and 
other nations will enjoy its security. The corner-stone of 
National Independence is already in its place, and on it is 
inscribed the name of George Washington. There is 
another stone which must have its place at the corner also. 
This is the Declaration of Independence with all its promises 
fulfilled. On this stone we will gratefully inscribe the 
name of Abraham Lincoln. 



300 ADDRESS TO THE HEAVENLY BODIES. 

OVERTHROW OF BELSHAZZAR. 

Barry Cornwall. 

Belshazzar is king ! Belshazzar is lord ? 

And a thousand dark nobles all bend at his board ; 

Fruits glisten, flowers blossom, meats steam, and a flood 

Of the wine that man loveth, runs redder than blood : 

Wild dancers are there, and a riot of mirth, 

And the beauty that maddens the passions of earth ; 

And the crowds all shout, 

Till the vast roofs ring, — 
" All praise to Belshazzar, Belshazzar the king ! " 

" Bring forth," cries the monarch, " the vessels of gold, 
Which my father tore down from the temples of old : 
Bring forth ; and we'll drink, while the trumpets are blown, 
To the gods of bright silver, of gold, and of stone : 
Bring forth ! " — and before him the vessels all shine, 
And he bows unto Baal, and he drinks the dark wine ; 
While the trumpets bray, 
And the cymbals ring, — 
" Praise, praise to Belshazzar, Belshazzar the king ! 

Now, what cometh ? — look, look ! — Without menace, or call, 

Who writes, with the lightning's bright hand, on the wall ? 

What pierceth the king, like the point of a dart ? 

W T hat drives the bold blood from his cheek to his heart ? 

" Chaldeans ! magicians ! the letters expound ! " 

They are read, — and Belshazzar is dead on the ground ! 

Hark ! — the Persian is come, 

On a conqueror's wing ; 
And a Mede's on the throne of Belshazzar the king ! - 



ADDRESS TO THE HEAVENLY BODIES. 

Henry Ware, Jr. 

Tell me, ye splendid orbs ! as from your throne 
Ye mark the rolling provinces that own 
Your sway, what beings fill those bright abodes ? 
How formed, how gifted ? what their powers, their state, 



OUR ONE LIFE. 301 

Their happiness, their wisdom ? Do they bear 
The stamp of human nature ? Or has God 
Peopled those purer realms with lovelier forms 
And more celestial minds ? Does Innocence 
Still wear her native and untainted bloom? 

Has War trod o'er them with his foot of fire ? 
And Slavery forged his chains; and Wrath, and Hate, 
And sordid Selfishness, and cruel Lust 
Leagued their base bands to tread out light and truth, 
And scatter woe where Heaven had planted joy ? 
Or are they yet all paradise, unfallen 
And uncorrupt ? existence one long joy, 
Without disease upon the frame, or sin 
Upon the heart, or weariness of life ; 
Hope never quenched, and age unknown, 
And death unfeared ; while fresh and fadeless youth 
Glows in the light from God's near throne of love ? 

Speak, speak ! the mysteries of those living worlds 

Unfold ! No language? Everlasting light 

And everlasting silence? Yet the eye 

May read and understand. The hand of God 

Has written legibly what man may know — 

The glory of the Maker. There it shines. 



OUR ONE LIFE. 
Horatius Bonar. 

'Tis not for man to trifle ! Life is brief, 

And sin is here. 
Our age is but the falling of a leaf, 

A dropping tear. 
We have no time to sport away the hours, 
All must be earnest in a world like ours. 

Not many lives, but only one have we, — 

One, only one ; 
How sacred should that one life ever be — ■ 

That narrow span ! 



302 HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS. 

Day after day filled up with blessed toil, 
Hour after hour still bringing in new spoil. 

Our being is no shadow of thin air, 

No vacant dream, 
No fable of the things that never were 

But only seem. 
,r Fis full of meaning as of mystery, 
Though strange and solemn may that meaning be. 

Our sorrows are no phantom of the night, 

No idle tale : 
No cloud that floats along a sky of light, 

On summer gale. 
They are the true realities of earth, 
Friends and companions even from our birth. 

O life below — how brief, and poor, and sad ! 

One heavy sigh. 
O life above — how long, how fair, and glad, — 

An endless joy. 
Oh, to be done with daily dying here ; 
Oh, to begin the living in yon sphere ! 

O day of time, how dark ! O sky and earth, 

How dull your hue ; 
O day of Christ — how bright ! O sky and earth, 

Made fair and new ! 
Come, better Eden, with thy fresher green ; 
Come, brighter Salem, gladden all the -scene ! 



HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS. 

N.P.Willis. 

The morning broke. Light stole upon the clouds 
With a strange beauty. Earth received again 
Its garment of a thousand dyes ; and leaves, 
And delicate blossoms, and the painted flowers, 
And everything that bendeth to the dew, 
And stirreth with the daylight, lifted up 
Its beauty to the breath of that sweet morn. 



HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS. 303 

All things are dark to sorrow ; and the light 
And loveliness, and fragrant air were sad 
To the dejected Hagar. The moist earth 
Was pouring odors from its spicy pores, 
And the young birds were singing as if life 
Were a new thing to them ; but music came 
Upon her ear like discord, and she felt, 
That pang of the unreasonable heart, 
That, bleeding amid things it loved so well, 
Would have some sign of sadness as they pass. 
She stood at Abraham's tent. Her lips were pressed 
Till the blood started ; and the wandering veins 
Of her transparent forehead were swelled out, 
As if her pride would burst them. Her dark eye 
Was clear and tearless, and the light of heaven, 
Which made its language legible, shot back, 
From her long lashes, as it had been flame. 

Her noble boy stood by her, with his hand 
Clasped in her own, and his round, delicate feet, 
Scarce trained to balance on the tented floor 
Sandaled for journeying. He had looked up 
Into his mother's face, until he caught 
The spirit there, and his young heart was swelling 
Beneath his dimpled bosom, and his form 
Straightened up proudly in his tiny wrath, 
As if his light proportions would have swelled, 
Had they but matched his spirit, to the man. 

Why bends the patriarch as he cometh now 
Upon his staff so wearily ? His beard 
Is low upon his breast, and high his brow, 
So written with the converse of his God, 
Beareth the swollen vein of agony. 
His lip is quivering, and his wonted step 
Of vigor is not there ; and, though the morn 
Is passing fair and beautiful, he breathes 
Its freshness as if it were a pestilence. 

He gave to her the water and the bread, 
But spoke no word, and trusted not himself 
To look upon her face, but laid his hand, 
In silent blessing, on the fair-haired boy, 
And left her to her lot of loneliness. 



304 HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS. 

Should Hagar weep ? May slighted woman turn, 
And, as a vine the oak hath shaken off, 
Bend Hghtly to her leaning trust again? 
O, no ! by all her loveliness — by all 
That makes life poetry and beauty, no ! 
Make her a slave ; steal from her rosy cheek 
By needless jealousies ; let the last star 
Leave her a watcher by your couch of pain ; 
Wrong her by petulance, suspicion, all 
That makes her Cup a bitterness— yet give 
One evidence of love, and earth has not 
An emblem of devotedness like hers. 
But, oh ! estrange her once — it boots not how — 
By wrong or silence — anything that tells 
A change has come upon your tenderness, — 
And there is not a feeling out of heaven 
Her pride o'ermastereth not. 

She went her way with a strong step and slow — 
Her pressed lip arched, and her clear eye undimmed, 
As if it were a diamond, and her form 
Borne proudly up, as if her heart breathed through. 
Her child kept on in silence, though she pressed 
His hand till it was pained ; for he had read 
The dark look of his mother, and the seed 
Of a stern nation had been breathed upon. 

The morning passed, and Asia's sun rode up 
In the clear heaven, and every beam was heat. 
The cattle of the hills were in the shade, 
And the bright plumage of the Orient lay 
On beating bosoms in her spicy trees. 
It was an hour of rest ! but Hagar found 
No shelter in the wilderness, and on 
She kept her weary way, until the boy 
Hung down his head, and opened his parched lips 
For water ; but she could not give it him. 

She laid him down beneath the sultry sky, — 
For it was better than the close hot breath 
Of the thick pines, — and tried to comfort him ; 
But he was sore athirst, and his blue eyes 
Were dim and blood-shot, and he could not know 
Why God denied him water in the wild. 



HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS. 305 

She sat a little longer, and he grew 
Ghastly and faint, as if he would have died. 
It was too much for her. She lifted him. 
And bore him further on, and laid his head 
Beneath the shadow of a desert shrub ; 
And, shrouding up her face, she went away, 
And sat to watch, where he could see her not, 
Till he should die ; and, watching him, she mourned : 

" God stay thee in thine agony, my boy ! 
I cannot see thee die ; I cannot brook 

Upon thy brow to look, 
And see death settle on my cradle joy. 
How have I drunk the light of thy blue eye ! 

And could I see thee die ? 

" I did not dream of this when thou wast straying, 
Like an unbound gazelle, among the flowers ; 

Or wiling the soft hours, 
By the rich gush of water-sources playing, 
Then sinking weary to thy smiling sleep, 

So beautiful and deep. 

"Oh, no ! and when I watched by thee the while, 
And saw thy bright lip curling in thy dream, 

And thought of the dark stream 
In my own land of Egypt, the far Nile, 
How prayed 1 that my father's land might be 

An heritage for thee ! 

"And now the grave for its cold breast hath won thee ! 
And thy white, delicate limbs the earth will press, 

And, oh ! my last caress 
Must feel thee cold ; for a chill hand is on thee. 
How can I leave my boy, so pillowed there 

Upon his clustering hair ! " 

She stood beside the well her God had given 
To gush in that deep wilderness, and bathed 
The forehead of her child until he laughed 
In his reviving happiness, and lisped 
His infant thought of gladness at the sight 
Of the cool plashing of his mother's hand. 



306 LINES ON A SKELETON. 

LINES ON A SKELETON. 

Anonymous. 

Behold this ruin ! 'Twas a skull 

Once of ethereal spirit full. 

This narrow cell was Life's retreat, 

This space was Thought's mysterious seat. 

What beauteous visions filled this spot ! 

What dreams of pleasure long forgot ! 

Nor Hope, nor Joy, nor Love, nor Fear, 

Have left one trace of record here. 

Beneath this moldering canopy, 

Once shone the bright and busy eye ; 

But start not at the dismal void — 

If social love that eye employed, 

If with no lawless fire it gleamed, 

But through the dews of kindness beamed, 

That eye shall be forever bright 

When stars and sun are sunk in night. 

Within this hollow cavern hung 

The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue. 

If falsehood's honey it disdained, 

And when it could not praise, was chained, 

If bold in Virtue's cause it spoke, 

Yet gentle concord never broke ! 

This silent tongue shall plead for thee 

When time unveils Eternity. 

Say, did these fingers delve the mine ? 
Or with the envied rubies shine ? 
To hew the rock or wear the gem, 
Can little now avail to them. 
But if the page of truth they sought, 
Or comfort to the mourner brought, 
These hands a richer meed shall claim 
Than all that wait on Wealth or Fame. 

Avails it, whether bare or shod, 
These feet the paths of duty trod ? 



DAYS THAT ARE GONE. 307 

If from the bowers of Ease they fled, 
To seek Affliction's humble shed ; 
If Grandeur's guilty bride they spurned, 
And home to Virtue's cot returned, 
These feet with angels' wings shall vie, 
And tread the palace of the sky. 



DAYS THAT ARE GONE. 

Charles Mackay. 

Who is it that mourns for the days that are gone, 

When a noble could do as he liked with his own ! 

When his serfs, with their burdens well filled on their backs, 

Never dared to complain of the weight of a tax ? 

When his word was a statue, his nod was a law, 

And for aught but his " order " he cared not a straw ? 

When each had his dungeon and rack for the poor, 

And a gibbet to hang a refractory boor ? 

They were days when a man with a thought in his pate 
Was a man that was born for the popular hate ; 
And if 'twere a thought that was good for his kind, 
The man was too vile to be left u neon fined ; 
The days when obedience, in right or in wrong, 
Was always the sermon and always the song ; 
When the people, like cattle, were pounded or driven, 
And to scourge them was thought a king's license from 
heaven. 

They were days when the sword settled questions of right, 
And Falsehood was first to monopolize Might ; 
When the fighter of battles was always adored, 
And the greater the tyrant, the greater the lord ; 
When the king, who by myriads could number his slain, 
Was considered by far the most worthy to reign ; 
When the fate of the multitude hung on his breath — 
A god in his life, and a saint in his death. 

They were days when the headsman was always prepared — 

The block ever ready — the ax ever bared ; 

When a corpse on the gibbet aye swung to and fro, 



308 THE DROWNED MARINER. 

And the fire at the stake never smoldered too low ; 
When famine and age made a woman a witch, 
To be roasted alive, or be drowned in a ditch ; 
When difference of creed was the vilest of crime, 
And martyrs were burned half a score at a time. 

They were days when the gallows stood black in the way, 

The larger the town, the more plentiful they ; 

When Law never dreamed it was good to relent, 

Or thought it less wisdom to kill than prevent ; 

When Justice herself, taking Law for her guide, 

Was never appeased till a victim had died ; 

And the stealer of sheep, and the slayer of men, 

Were strung up together — again and again. 

They were days when the crowd had no freedom of speech, 

And reading and writing were out of its reach ; 

When ignorance, stolid and dense, was its doom, 

And bigotry swathed it from cradle to tomb ; 

But the Present, though clouds o'er her countenance roll, 

Has a light in her eyes, and a hope in her soul. 

And we are too wise, like the bigots, to mourn 

For the darkness of days that shall never return. 



THE DROWNED MARINER. 
Elizabeth Oakes Smith. 

A mariner sat in the shrouds one night, 

The wind was piping free ; 
Now bright, now dimmed was the moonlight pale, 
And the phosphor gleamed in the wake of the whale, 

As it floundered in the sea ; 
The scud was flying athwart the sky, 
The gathering winds went whistling by, 
And the wave, as it towered then fell in spray, 
Looked an emerald wall in the moonlit ray. 

The mariner swayed and rocked on the mast, 

But the tumult pleased him well : 
Down the yawning wave his eye he cast, 
And the monsters watched, as they hurried past, 

Or lightly rose and fell, — 



THE DROWNED MARINER. 309 

For their broad, damp fins were under the tide, 
And they lashed, as they passed the vessel's side, 
And their filmy eyes, all huge and grim, 
Glared fiercely up, and they glared at him. 

Now freshens the gale, and the brave ship goes 

Like an uncurbed steed along ; 
A sheet of flame is the spray she throws, 
As her gallant prow the water plows ; 

But the ship is fleet and strong ; 
The topsails are reefed, and the sails are furled, 
And onward she sweeps o'er the watery world, 
And dippeth her spars in the surging flood ; 
But there cometh no chill to the mariner's blood. 

Wildly she rocks, but he swingeth at ease, 

And holds him by the shroud ; 
And as she careens to the crowding breeze, 
The gaping deep the mariner sees, 

And the surging heareth loud. 
Was that a face, looking up at him 
With its pallid cheek, and its cold eyes dim? 
Did it beckon him down ? Did it call his name? 
Now rolleth the ship the way whence it came. 

The mariner looked, and he saw, with dread. 

A face he knew too well : 
And the cold eyes glared, the eyes of the dead, 
And its long hair out on the waves was spread — 

Was there a tale to tell ? 
The stout ship rocked with a reeling speed, 
And the mariner groaned, as well he need — 
For ever down, as she plunged on her side, 
The dead face gleamed from the briny tide. 

Bethink thee, mariner, well of the past : 

A voice calls loud for thee ; 
There's a stifled prayer, the first, the last ; 
The plunging ship on her beam is cast — 

Oh, where shall thy burial be ? 
Bethink thee of oaths, that were lightly spoken, 
Bethink thee of vows, that were lightly broken ; 
Bethink thee of all that is clear to thee, 
For thou art alone on the raging sea. 



310 HALLOWED GROUND. 

Alone in the dark, alone on the wave 

To buffet the storm alone ; 
To struggle aghast at thy watery grave, 
To struggle and feel there if none to save ! 

God shield thee, helpless one ! 
The stout limbs yield, for their strength is past ; 
The trembling hands on the deep are cast ; 
The white brow gleams a moment more, 
Then slowly sinks — the struggle is o'er. 

Down, down, where the storm is hushed to sleep, 
Where the sea its dirge shall swell ; 

Where the amber-drops for thee shall weep, 

And the rose-lipped shell its music keep ; 
There thou shalt slumber well. 

The gem and the pearl lie heaped at thy side ; 

They feli from the neck of the beautiful bride, 

From the strong man's hand, from the maiden's brow, 

As they slowly sunk to the wave below. 

A peopled home is the ocean-bed ; 

The mother and child are there ; 
The fervent youth and the hoary head, 
The maid with her floating locks outspread, 

The babe with its silken hair : 
As the water moveth they slightly sway, 
And the tranquil lights on their features play : 
And there is each cherished and beautiful form, 
Away from decay, and away from the storm. 



HALLOWED GROUND. 

Thomas Campbell. 

What's hallowed ground ? Has earth a clod 
Its Maker meant not should be trod 
By man, the image of his God, 

Erect and free. 
Unscourged by Superstition's rod 

To bow the knee ? 



HALLOWED GROUND. 311 

Is't death to fall for Freedom's right ? 
He's dead alone that lacks her light ! 
And murder sullies in Heaven's sight 

The sword he draws : 
What can alone ennoble fight ? 

A noble cause ! 

Give that ! and welcome War to brace 

Her drums ! and rend Heaven's reeking space ! 

The colors planted face to face, 

The charging cheer, 
Though Death's pale horse lead on the chase, 

Shall still be dear. 

And place our trophies where men kneel 
To Heaven ! but Heaven rebukes my zeal. 

O God above ! 
The cause of Truth and human weal, 
Transfer it from the sword's appeal 

To Peace and Love. 

Peace, Love ! the cherubim that join 
Their spread wings o'er Devotion's shrine, 
Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine, 

Where they are not — 
The heart alone can make divine 

Religion's spot. 

To incantations dost thou trust, 
And pompous rites in domes august ? 
See moldering stones and metal's rust 

Belie the vaunt 
That men can bless one pile of dust 

With chime or chant. 

The ticking wood-worm mocks thee, man ! 
Thy temples — creeds themselves grow wan ! 
But there's a dome of nobler span, 

A temple given 
Thy faith, that bigots dare not ban — 

Its space is Heaven ! 



312 NOTHING BUT LEAVES. 

Its roof star-pictured Nature's ceiling, 
Where, trancing the rapt spirit's feeling, 
And God himself to man revealing, 

The harmonious spheres 
Make music, though unheard their pealing 

By mortal ears. 

Fair stars ! are not your beings pure ? 
Can sin, can death, your words obscure ? 
Else why so swell the thoughts at your 

Aspect above ? 
Ye must be Heavens that make us sure 

Of heavenly love ! 

And in your harmony sublime 
I read the doom of distant time ; 
That man's regenerate soul from crime 

Shall yet be drawn, 
And reason on his mortal clime 

Immortal dawn. 

What's hallowed ground ? 'Tis what gives birth 
To sacred thoughts in souls of worth ! — 
Peace ! Independence ! Truth ! go forth 

Earth's compass round ; 
And your high priesthood shall make earth 

All hallowed ground ! 



NOTHING BUT LEAVES. 

Nothing but leaves ; the spirit grieves 

Over a wasted life ; 
Sin committed while conscience slept, 
Promises made but never kept, 

Hatred, battle, and strife ; 
Nothing but leaves ! 

Nothing but leaves ; no garnered sheaves 

Of life's fair, ripened grain ; 
Words, idle words, for earnest deeds ; 
We sow our seeds — lo ! tares and weeds ; 

We reap with toil and pain 
Nothing but leaves ! 



MORAL GLORIES. 313 

Nothing but leaves ; memory weaves 

No veil to screen the past : 
As we retrace our weary way, 
Counting each lost and misspent day — 

We find, sadly, at last, 
Nothing but leaves ! 

And shall we meet the Master so, 

Bearing our withered leaves ? 
The Saviour looks for perfect fruit, — 
We stand before him, humbled, mute ; 

Waiting the words he breathes, — 
" Nothing but leaves ? " 



MORAL GLORIES. 
Horace Mann. 

A higher and holier world than the world of Ideas, or the 
world of Beauty, lies around us ; and we find ourselves 
indued with susceptibilities which affiliate us to all its purity 
and its perfectness. The laws of nature are sublime, but 
there is a moral sublimity before which the highest intelli- 
gences must kneel and adore. 

The laws by which the winds blow, and the tides of the 
ocean, like a vast clepsydra, measure, with inimitable exact- 
ness, the hours of ever-flowing time ; the laws by which the 
planets roll, and the sun vivifies and paints ; the laws which 
preside over the subtle combinations of chemistry, and the 
amazing velocities of electricity ; the laws of germination 
and production in the vegetable and animal worlds, — all 
these, radiant with eternal beauty as they are, and exalted 
above all the objects of sense, still wane and pale before 
the Moral Glories that apparel the universe in their celes- 
tial light. 

The heart can put on charms which no beauty of known 
things, nor imagination of the unknown, can aspire to em- 
ulate. Virtue shines in native colors, purer and brighter 
than pearl, or diamond, or prism can reflect. Arabian gar- 
dens in their bloom can exhale no such sweetness as charity 
diffuses. Beneficence is godlike, and he w 7 ho does most 



314 CICERO AGAINST MARK ANTONY. 

good to his fellow-man is the Master of Masters, and has 
learned the Arts of Arts. 

Enrich and embellish the universe as you will, it is only a 
fit temple for the heart that loves truth with a supreme love. 
Inanimate vastness excites wonder; knowledge kindles 
admiration ; but love enraptures the soul. Scientific truth 
is marvelous, but moral truth is divine ; and whoever 
breathes its air, and walks by its light, has found the lost 
paradise. For him a new heaven and a new earth have 
already been created. His home is the sanctuary of God, 
the Holy of Holies. 



CICERO AGAINST MARK ANTONY. 
Translated by Lord Brougham. 

This one day — this blessed individual day — I say, this 
very point of time in which I am speaking — defend it, if you 
can ! Why is the Forum hedged in with armed troops? 
Why stand your satellites listening to me sword in hand ? 
Why are the gates of the Temple of Peace not flung open ? 
Why have you marched into the town, men of all nations, — 
but chiefly barbarous nations, — savages from Itursea, armed 
thus with slings ? 

You pretend that it is all to protect your person. Is it 
not better far to die a thousand deaths, than be unable 
to live in one's own country without guards of armed men ? 
But trust me, there is no safety in defenses like these. We 
must be fenced round by the affections and the good will of 
our countrymen, not by their arms, if we would be secure. 

Look back, then, Mark Antony, on that day when you 
abolished the Dictatorship ; set before your eyes the delight 
of the Senate and People of Rome ; contrast it with the 
traffic you and your followers are now engaged in — then you 
will be sensible of the vast difference between glory and 
gain. Yet, as some stricken with a morbid affection, an 
obtuseness of the senses, are unable to taste the flavor of 
their food, so profligate, rapacious, desperate men, lose the 
relish of true fame. 

But, if the glory of great actions has no charms for you, 
cannot even fear deter you from wicked deeds ? You have 
no apprehension of criminal prosecutions — be it so ; if this 



CICERO AGAINST MARK ANTONY. 315 

arises from conscious innocence, I commend it ; but, if it 
proceeds from your reliance upon mere force, do you not 
perceive what it is that awaits him who has thus overcome 
the terrors of the law ? 

But, if you have no dread of brave men and patriotic 
citizens, because your person is protected from them by 
your satellites, believe me, your own partisans will not bear 
with you much longer ; and what kind of life is his whose 
days and nights are distracted with the fear of his own 
followers ? Unless, indeed, you have bound them to you 
by greater obligations than those by which Caesar had 
attached some of the very men who put him to death ; or 
that you can, in any one respect, be compared to him. 

In him there was genius, judgment, memory, learning, cir- 
cumspection, reflection, application. His exploits in war, 
how mischievous soever to his country, were yet trans- 
cendent. Bent for years upon obtaining supreme power, he 
had accomplished his object with vast labor, through count- 
less perils. By his munificence, by public works, by largesses*, 
by hospitality, he had won over the thoughtless multitude ; 
he had attached his followers by his generosity, his adver- 
saries by his specious clemency. In a word, he had in- 
troduced into a free state partly through fear of him, partly 
through tolerance of him, a familiarity with slavery. 

With that great man I may compare you as regards the 
lust of power : in no other thing can you be, in any manner 
or way, likened to him. But out of a thousand ills which he 
forced into the constitution of our commonwealth, this one 
good has come, that the Roman people have now learned 
how far each person is to be trusted, to whom they may 
commit themselves, against whom they must be on their 
guard. Do these things never pass through your mind ? 
Do you not comprehend that it suffices for brave men to 
have learned how beautiful the deed, how precious the 
service, how glorious the fame of extirpating a tyrant ? 
When mankind could not endure Caesar will they hear thee ? 
Henceforward, trust me, they will flock emulously to this 
work, nor wait for the lingering opportunity. 

Regard the commonwealth for a moment, Mark Antony, 
I do beseech you. Think of the race you are sprung from, 
not the generation you live with. Be on what terms you 
please with me ; but return into favor with your country. 
That, however, is your own affair — I will declare my course. 



316 RICHARD OF GLOSTER. 

Young, I stood by the country — old, I will not desert her. I 
defied the arms of Catiline — I will not tremble at yours ! 
Nay, I should cheerfully fling myself into the gulf, if my death 
would restore the public freedom, and the sufferings of the 
Roman people could thus be exasperated at once to the 
crisis which has been so long coming on ! 

For truly, if it is well nigh twenty years since I denied, 
in this very temple, that death ever could come before its 
time to a man of consular rank, how much more truly may 
I say so now, in my old age ? To me, Senators, death is 
even desirable, having lived to finish all I have undertaken 
to achieve. For two things only I feel anxious ; the one, 
that my eyes may close upon the liberties of Rome — a 
greater boon than this Heaven has not to bestow ; the 
other, that that fate may befall every one, which his con- 
duct to his country has earned. 



RICHARD OF GLOSTER. 

John Q. Saxe. 

Perhaps, my dear boy, you may never have heard 

Of that wicked old monarch, King Richard the Third,- 

Whose actions were often extremely absurd ; 

And who led such a sad life, 

Such a wanton and mad life ; 
Indeed, I may say, such a wretchedly bad life, 
I suppose I am perfectly safe in declaring, 
There was ne'er such a monster of infamous daring ; 
In all sorts of crime he was wholly unsparing ; 
In pride and ambition was quite beyond bearing, 
And had a bad habit of cursing and swearing. 

And yet Richard's tongue was remarkably smooth. 
Could utter a lie quite as easy as truth 
(Another bad habit he got in his youth ); 
And had, on occasion, a powerful battery 
Of plausible phrases and eloquent flattery, 
Which gave him, my boy, in that barbarous day 
(Things are different now, I am happy to say), 
Over feminine hearts a most perilous sway. 



RICHARD OF GLOSTER. 317 

He murdered their brothers, 

And fathers and mothers, 
And, worse than all that, he slaughtered by dozens 
His own royal uncles and nephews and cousins ; 
And then, in the cunningest sort of orations, 

In smooth conversations, 

And flattering ovations, 
Made love to their principal female relations ! 
'Twas very improper, my boy, you must know, 
For the son of a king to behave himself so ; 
And you'll scarcely believe what the chronicles show 

Of his wonderful wooings 

And infamous doings ; 
But here's an exploit that he certainly did do — 

Killed his own cousin Ned, 

As he slept in his bed, 
And married next day the disconsolate widow ! 

I don't understand how such ogres arise, 

But beginning, perhaps, with things little in size, 

Such as torturing beetles and blue-bottle flies, 

Or scattering snuff in a poodle-dog's eyes, — 

King Richard had grown so wantonly cruel, 

He minded a murder no more than a duel ; 

He'd indulge, on the slightest pretense or occasion, 

In his favorite amusement of decapitation, 

Until "Off with his head!" 

It is credibly said, 
From his majesty's mouth came as easy and pat — 
As from an old constable, " Off with his hat ! " 

And now King Richard has gone to bed ; 

But e'en in his sleep 

He cannot keep 
The past or the future out of his head. 

In his deep remorse, 

Each mangled corse, 
Of all he had slain, — or what was worse, 
Their ghosts, — came up in terrible force, 
And greeted his ear with unpleasant discourse, 

Until, with a scream 

He woke from his dream, 
And shouted aloud for " another horse !" 



318 THE MOONS MILD RAY. 

But see ! the murky Night is gone ! 

The Morn is up, and the Fight is on ! 

The Knights are engaging, the warfare is waging ; 

On the right — on the left — the battle is raging ; 

King Richard is down ! 

Will he save his crown ? 
There's a crack in it now ! — he's beginning to bleed ! 
Aha ! King Richard has lost his steed ! 
(At a moment like this 'tis a terrible need !) 
He shouts aloud with thundering force, 
And offers a very high price for a horse. 
But it's all in vain — the battle is done — ■ 
The day is lost ! — and the day is won ! — 
And Richmond is King ! and Richard's a corse ! 



ON HIS OWN BLINDNESS. 

John Milton. 

When I consider how my light is spent 

Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, 

And that one talent which is death to hide, 

Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent 

To serve therewith my Maker, and present 

My true account, lest He, returning, chide ; 

" Doth God exact day labor, light denied ?" 

I fondly ask ; but Patience, to prevent 

That murmur, soon replies, — "God doth not need 

Either man's work, or His own gifts ; who best 

Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best ; His state 

Is kingly ; thousands at His bidding speed, 

And post e'er land and ocean without rest ; 

They, also, serve who only stand and wait." 



THE MOON'S MILD RAY. 
John H. Bryant. 

There is a magic in the moon's mild ray, — 
What time she softly climbs the evening sky, 
And sitteth with the silent stars on high, — 

That charms the pang of earth-born grief away. 



ON BEAUTY. 319 

I raise my eye to the blue depths above, 

And worship Him whose power, pervading space, 
Holds those bright orbs at peace in His embrace, 

Yet comprehends earth's lowliest things in love. 

Oft, when that silent moon was sailing high, 
I've left my youthful sports to gaze, and now, 
When time with graver lines has marked my brow, 

Sweetly she shines upon my sobered eye. 

O, may the light of truth, my steps to guide, 

Shine on my eve of life— shine soft, and long abide. 



ON SHAKESPEARE. 

Hartley Coleridge. 

The soul of man is larger than the sky, 

Deeper than ocean — or the abysmal dark 

Of the unfathomed center. Like that ark, 

Which, in its sacred hold, uplifted high, 

O'er the drowned hills, the human family, 

And stock reserved of every living kind, 

So, in the compass of the single mind, 

The seeds and pregnant forms in essence lie, 

That make all worlds. Great poet, 'twas thy art 

To know thyself, and in thyself to be 

What'er Love, Hate, Ambition, Destiny, 

Or the firm, fatal purpose of the heart 

Can make of man. Yet thou wert still the same, 

Serene of thought, unhurt by thy own flame. 



ON BEAUTY. 

Shakespeare. 

O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem, 
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give ! 
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem 
For that sweet odor which doth in it live. 
The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye, 



320 DWELLINGS OF THE DEAD. 

As the perfumed tincture of the roses, 

Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly 

When summer's breath their masked buds discloses 

But, for their virtue only is their show, 

They live unwooed and unrespected fade ; 

Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so ; 

Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odors made ; 

And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth, 

When that shall fade, my verse distills your truth. 



DWELLINGS OF THE DEAD. 

A sweet and soothing influence breathes around 
The dwellings of the dead. Here on this spot, 
Where countless generations sleep forgot, 
Up from the marble tomb and grassy mound 
There cometh on my ear a peaceful sound, 
That bids me be contented with my lot, 
And suffer calmly. O ! when passions hot, 
When rage or envy doth my bosom wound ; 
Or wild designs —a fair deceiving train — 
Wreathed in their flowery fetters me enslave, 
Or keen misfortune's arrowy tempests roll 
Full on my naked head, — O, then, again 
May these still, peaceful accents of the grave 
Arise like slumbering music on my soul ! 



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